


Murder at the Savoy Hotel

by orderlychaos



Series: C/C Detective AU [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Clint and Natasha BFFs, Coulson is a famous detective, First Kiss, Get Together, Intrigue, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Sitwell works for Scotland Yard, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlychaos/pseuds/orderlychaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phillip Coulson, the famous detective, strode through the revolving doors of the Savoy Hotel just before seven in the evening.  When Phil walked up to the reception, the clerk behind the desk smiled warmly in greeting.  “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr Coulson,” he said.  “How may I help you this evening?”</p><p>When tragedy strikes at the Savoy Hotel, a beautiful socialite is found dead in her room. Her prized possesion, the Blue Star Diamond is stolen amongst the chaos. Detective Inspector Sitwell of Scotland Yard calls on the famous detective Phillip Coulson for help on the case.</p><p>Except nothing is quite what it seems and Phil must decide whether he can trust the help of the infamous scoundrel Clint Barton as they sift through intrigue, scandal and secrets to solve the MURDER AT THE SAVOY HOTEL.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Detective in the Dining Room

**Author's Note:**

> To start with, I want to say a HUGE thank you to Henry. You are amazing and thank you so much for sitting patiently through all my questions and requests. Without you, I couldn't have written this! (Or the summary!) <3
> 
> Secondly, as a fan of Agatha Christie, I have attempted to write this fic as a closed setting mystery (one of the characters you are introduced to is the murderer). I hope I have managed to pull it off and I hope you enjoy reading!

 

 

_The Savoy Hotel, London, June 17th, 1934_

Phillip Coulson, the famous detective, strode through the revolving doors of the Savoy Hotel just before seven in the evening.  As always, he had to fight to keep the trace of awe from his face at the black and white marble and pure extravagance that was one of London’s best hotels.  There had been a time in Phil’s life where something half as grand as the Savoy would have rendered him more than a little awestruck and despite his tailored suits, he’d never quite gotten over that impulse.

When Phil walked up to the reception, the clerk behind the desk smiled warmly in greeting.  “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr Coulson,” he said.  “How may I help you this evening?”

Phil smiled politely in reply.  “I believe I have a dinner reservation...” he began, not entirely sure what name the reservation would be under.

It wasn’t Phil’s first time dining at the Savoy, but tonight’s dinner invitation was not simply mere indulgence.  Phil had received his unsigned invitation through the post and the mystery surrounding the note had intrigued Phil against his better judgement.  Whoever they were, his mysterious client was wealthy enough to arrange a dinner reservation at the Savoy and probably had the rank and privilege of polite society.

The clerk smiled again.  “Of course, sir,” he said, consulting the large, leather-bound book just below the edge of the desk.  “Your table is ready in the main dining room, Mr Coulson.”

Inwardly, Phil raised an eyebrow.  It appeared that his mystery client had made the dinner reservation under Phil’s own name, which was both intelligent and devious.  Phil was reluctantly impressed, even though he could have done without the layers of secrecy.  His life hadn’t always been dining rooms and tailored suits and the cloak and dagger reminded Phil of the more unpleasant parts of his past that were definitely not fit for the polite company he would be keeping.

As was his habit, learnt during his time at Scotland Yard, Phil let his gaze move over the other dinner guests in the Savoy’s main dining room as he settled into his chair.  The dining room was just as Phil remembered it, with crisp white tablecloths and polished silverware, and the tables placed far enough away from each other to allow for discretion if needed.  Not that the dining room was crowded tonight; Phil only noted three groups of diners aside from himself, all wrapped up in their own conversations and not really noticing each other.  He nodded to the waiter to bring over the wine selection, unable to stop his mind from noting the behaviour of the guests around him as he waited for his host to arrive.

There was a large group of five in the middle of the room and from what Phil could see, at least two of them had already been drinking heavily.  They all wore fine, fashionable clothes as expected of guests at the Savoy, but even so there was a brashness about them that seemed a little loud and out of place in the refined surroundings.  Blinking, Phil realised he recognised one of the men; Anthony Stark, the American born millionaire industrialist and owner of Stark Industries.  Phil remembered the scandal from the previous year when there had been an attempt to kidnap Stark while he had been holidaying in the French Riviera.  The story had filled the newspapers for weeks, Stark’s photograph accompanying it, which made it easy for Phil to recognise him now.

Stark’s dinner jacket and waistcoat were perfectly tailored, but his bow tie was already askew and despite the smile on his face, Phil could see the strain around Stark’s eyes from across the room.  He was drinking heavily from his wine glass as well and it made Phil wonder what was being discussed at the table to put such tension under the smiles and laughter.  Holding court in the middle of the table was an older, bald man with a neatly kept grey beard.  His photograph had been splashed across the newspapers the previous year as well and there was no mistaking him as Stark’s mentor and business partner Obadiah Stane.  Stane didn’t appear to be drinking as much as his partner, but his tailored dinner jacket could not hide the breadth of Stane’s shoulders or the way he laughed just a fraction too loud for politeness.  There was a hard edge to the man’s manner and Phil noticed that while he kept a close eye on the staff near him, he was also quick to dismiss them.

Wrapped around Stane’s arm was a very pretty blonde who looked to be at least half his age.  Her evening gown was a deep red, as was her lipstick and Phil could see the large diamond ring on her finger without needing to move any closer to the table.  The woman seemed to be making a point of flashing it around and Phil absently wondered if the group had gathered to celebrate what appeared to be an engagement.  However, it was the large diamond on the woman’s necklace that caught the most of Phil’s attention; there was no mistaking the Blue Star Diamond and Phil made a mental note that it had obviously been Stane who had been the unnamed millionaire who had bought it at auction.

The other two members of the party looked to be far more subdued.  To Stark’s left was a rather stunning woman with strawberry blonde hair.  Her evening gown was not quite as expensive as her blonde companion’s, but the deep blue colour suited her well and of the two women, Phil privately thought she was far more elegant.  On the far side of the party, to the right of the blonde woman, sat another man.  His clothes were slightly rumpled, as if hastily put on and his curly brown hair was slightly dishevelled.  However, Phil noticed the man’s eyes were sharp behind the thin-wired glasses he wore and that he was attempting to keep a close eye on Stark.  Phil wasn’t precisely sure why he thought so, but he would have put money on the fact that the third man was an old friend of Stark’s.

A group of three young diners caught Phil’s eye next.  They were sitting in the corner towards the back of the dining room and Phil recognised the young woman as Miss Margaret Carter, the only daughter of Lord Astwell.  Phil had taken care of a matter for her father some years ago and it surprised him a little to see how poised and grown up Peggy had become.  Phil didn’t recognise either of her companions, but both seemed to be handsome young men and clearly friends.  There was something vaguely familiar about the blond man, but Phil couldn’t see his face, even when he turned his head to whisper something to his darker haired friend.

Dining far more sedately towards the other end of the room was Sir John Stern, a prominent MP and a man Phil was surprised to recognise as Justin Hammer, whose company and wealthy, playboy lifestyle rivalled Anthony Stark’s own.  Phil knew of the rumours surrounding the pair and was surprised they were both dining at the Savoy without causing yet another scandalous scene.  The pair were forever known to almost hate each other, a rivalry that Phil predicted stemmed from childhood rather than just the competition of business.  Hammer, however, seemed deep in conversation with Stern and Phil tucked that fact away in his mind.  He never knew when something like that might be useful for his investments.

Phil looked away from his observations of the guests when he saw the waiter approach out of the corner of his eye.  “Sir, will you be waiting for your companion much longer?” the waiter asked politely.

Pulling his pocket watch out of the pocket of his own neatly-pressed waistcoat, Phil was a little surprised to realise that his mysterious host was over half an hour late for dinner.  It was quite possible that whoever had summoned Phil here had been detained, but Phil rather suspected his host was not coming.  He pushed aside the feeling of frustration of the missed meeting and the faint itching of an unsolved mystery and smiled politely up at the waiter.  “No, I don’t believe I shall,” he replied.

It was hardly the first time a potential client had changed their mind about requiring Phil’s services.  As discreet as he promised to be, Phil knew that telling a stranger the details about a distressing or embarrassing moment in one’s life was difficult at best.  If his mysterious host ever changed his or her mind, they would know where to find Phil again.  And it was hardly the first time Phil had dined alone, even in such luxurious surroundings.  He was a loner by nature and had few friends that he could count on, even fewer now that he had left Scotland Yard.  Although if Phil was truthful, and he always tried to be with himself, most of his fellow inspectors at the Yard didn’t really like his company on a case, let alone off it.

All thoughts of his lack of company disappeared a moment later, however, when two new guests arrived in the dining room.  Phil blinked, not really able to take his eyes off the striking couple that entered and from the corner of his eye, Phil could see he was not the only one.  Even Stane and his companions had stopped their laughter to watch.  Phil recognised both of the new arrivals immediately from where their photos had been splashed across the society pages for the last week; Miss Natasha Romanoff, notorious adventuress and cousin to the formerly grand Romanov Dynasty and Clint Barton, gambler, writer and rumoured to be related to Russian royalty himself.

Miss Romanoff would be stunningly beautiful even without the deep emerald evening gown she wore.  The silk dress hugged her curves and tauntingly revealed the pale skin of her back.  Her red hair was as bold as her lipstick and was carefully pinned back from her face in an elaborate hairstyle.  Her green eyes were sharp and knowing as they swept the room, her full lips tilted with a hint of amusement.  Yet as stunning as the she was, it was her companion that drew Phil’s attention and refused to let it go.  Barton’s immaculate black jacket emphasised broad shoulders with the starched white shirt and waistcoat beneath highlighting his trim stomach and lean waist.  The man’s hand looked strong and rough in comparison from where it rested possessively on the delicate skin of the Miss Romanoff’s back, but it was his face that Phil’s eyes kept drifting back to.  He wasn’t handsome in the classical sense, but his rugged features were only emphasised by the way his dark blond hair was combed back from his face.  His jaw was strong and determined and his lips looked as if they were permanently fixed with the hint of a smirk tugging at them.  Even impeccably dressed, Barton looked every inch the scoundrel he was rumoured to be.  His sharp blue eyes took in the room as intently as Miss Romanoff’s had, resting on Phil for long enough to tell Phil that he had caught Barton’s attention, before they moved on again.

The look had only been brief, but it hit Phil with the force of a gunshot.  Phil had long been aware of his preferences and how society found them distasteful and illegal, but even so Phil could not help the immediate stab of longing in his stomach that things could be different.  It had been a long time since Phil had found himself interested in companionship, but Clint Barton interested him in a way no one had in a very long time, if ever.  Blinking slightly, Phil returned his attention to his meal, even though his appetite had died.  Lusting after a ruggedly attractive face and roguish smirk was not something he should be doing, particularly when Barton was rumoured to be the latest in Romanoff’s string of lovers.

Instead, he should be focusing his detective skills on figuring out who had mysteriously invited him to dinner and then not shown up.

*~*

“Relax,” Natasha said quietly as she delicately sipped her wine.  “Everyone has mostly stopped staring now.”

Clint Barton made a face in reply and drank his own wine.  He usually preferred harder spirits when he drank, no doubt a legacy of his rough childhood, but Natasha had strict rules about behaviour in polite company – and dinner at the Savoy Hotel in London was definitely polite society.  He might have been able to play the role of gentleman but Clint certainly hadn’t been born into it, not like Natasha.  Yet Clint would _never_ regret the events twelve years ago that had led him to meet her.  She was the closest thing he’d ever had to a family that cared about him and Clint wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.  Although Clint did have to admit that the wealth that came with so-called polite society did beat starving, even if Clint did use the money to mostly to careen from one scandal to the next.

Natasha kicked him discreetly under the table.  “If you’re that bored, we can go and find some more entertaining nightlife later,” she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Hiding an answering smile, Clint idly spun one of the knives from his silverware through his fingers.  Despite appearances, Natasha wasn’t any more the polite lady than he was a gentleman and it worked for them.  He let his eyes drift back out over the dining room for a moment, before returning his gaze to Natasha.  “I’m not bored,” he said.  “I think I’m just... restless.”

It was a feeling that had been growing for a while.  Clint wasn’t quite bored with going from digs in Mesopotamia to the seedier streets of Paris or the more exotic corners of the Orient, but he was beginning to feel like there was something missing.  The adventure of it all had lost a little bit of its shine.  Clint was getting closer to thirty now and while he would never be the type of man to settle down with a wife and children for more than one reason, he was also feeling as if he would like his life to mean a little... more.  More of what, however, he did not know.  

“Ready for the next scandalous adventure?” Natasha asked him with a smirk after the waiter had discreetly placed their dinner on the table and disappeared again.

“Maybe,” Clint agreed with a smirk of his own, but part of him wasn’t sure it was that simple.  “So,” he said, changing the subject.  “What do we know about our fellow dinner guests?”

Natasha sat back with a wicked-edged smile.  “Well, where would you like to start?” she asked, her eyes glinting.

It was a game both he and Natasha enjoyed playing.  Polite society was always the same on the surface, but dig a little deeper and you could discover where the secrets lay.  They both knew what it was like to pretend to be something in one place and something else in another and Natasha loved to poke through the veneer of manners that lay over a dining room like the Savoy to what lay beneath.

Clint let his eyes drift over the room again, watching the guests around him.  Almost immediately, his eyes were drawn back to the well-dressed man dining alone.  He wasn’t the normal sort of man Clint found himself watching; even from a glance, he looked reserved and the type to frown upon vice, which was not the kind of man Clint usually associated with.  Yet, there was just something about him that drew Clint in.  His suit was well-tailored and expensive, showing off broader shoulders than one might expect.  Whoever he was, he gave off an unassuming air, but his grey-blue eyes were sharply observant as he watched those dining around him as closely as Clint was and Clint could almost see the way he was recording all the details away in his mind.  He’d caught Clint’s attention from the moment he’d walked into the room, because out of all the guests, Clint was betting he would be the most dangerous.

Tearing his eyes away from the man, Clint caught Natasha’s knowing smile.  Instead of giving her the satisfaction of knowing how curious he was about what she knew, he turned his gaze towards the party in the middle of the room.  “What about Anthony Stark?” he asked.  “And the man showing off his new blonde fiancé, who I’m going to guess is Stark’s business partner?”

“Obadiah Stane,” Natasha nodded and sipped her wine.  “And I believe the blonde’s name is Miss Christine Everhart.  A socialite from what I can gather, mostly out for the money.”

Clint smirked.  “You wouldn’t be able to guess that from the diamond around her neck.”

This time, Natasha’s smile was almost predatory.  “The Blue Star Diamond,” she purred.  “I wouldn’t mind having that draped around _my_ neck.”

Clint just gave her a level look because he knew that Natasha was not above stealing things she wanted.  “Aren’t you supposed to be telling me all the gossip you’ve gathered on Stark?” he asked.

“It’s a simple story,” Natasha said, trailing a blood-red fingernail over the rim of her wine glass.  “Miss Everhart, always on the lookout for a dashing, wealthy man, spent a while a few years ago hanging off Tony Stark’s arm, rather than his mentor’s.”  She paused for a moment and shrugged.  “It was no doubt some sort of messy affair, but I think half the reason for the expression on Stark’s face right now is the fact that he and his mentor have both slept with the same woman.”

Clint couldn’t help but chuckle softly.  “Well, that would make dinner conversation a little awkward,” he agreed.

Natasha smiled in agreement.  “Yes,” she said.  “I’m almost looking forward to the inevitable scene that arrives after Stark drinks a little too much scotch after the main course.”

Watching Stark for a moment longer, Clint let his eyes drift over the two men in the corner.  He recognised them both; one of Stark’s business rivals, Justin Hammer, and a particularly oily MP by the name of Sir John Stern.  From the hushed tone of their conversation, they were no doubt attempting to conduct some sort of business deal.  Clint vaguely remembered reading somewhere that Hammer’s company wasn’t doing so well lately.  He couldn’t say it really interested him.  The three diners in the other corner didn’t really interest Clint either because he could almost see the ridiculous love triangle forming in front of his eyes.  They were young enough and laughing loud enough for it to be something like that.  Determined not to let his gaze wander back to the lone stranger, Clint looked up to meet Natasha’s smug smile.

“His name is Phillip Coulson,” she said without prompting and Clint gave up the pretence that he wasn’t interested.  “Nephew to the late Viscount Cavendish who apparently left him most of his fortune, but not the title.  He’s a world famous detective.”

Clint wasn’t sure he liked the amount of glee in Natasha’s eyes, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.  “A detective?” he said.  “You mean like Scotland Yard?”

“In a former life,” Natasha replied.  “He works for himself now.  Do you remember that scandal a while ago?  I think it was when we were staying in Paris.  The one with the Norwegian royals?  That was one of his cases.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, Clint glanced at the man again, only to find Phillip Coulson’s sharp grey-blue gaze on him in return.  Clint could believe he was a detective.  Those eyes didn’t miss anything.  The longer he held them, the more he could feel those eyes peeling back the layers and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling.  “Any idea what he’s here investigating?” Clint asked, tearing his eyes away and looking back at Natasha.

Natasha shook her head, but her eyes were thoughtful.  “No,” she said.  Then she smirked again.  “The night is young, so would you like to go and attempt a scandal elsewhere or sit here and stare some more?”

Clint glared at her for a moment, before he rolled his eyes.  “Do you even have to ask that, Tash?” he said, rising to his feet to offer her his arm.  “You know how I love causing scandals.”

Her laughter was rich and smoky and if Clint wasn’t mistaken, Detective Coulson seemed more than a little put out by that fact.  Clint couldn’t help his smirk as he passed Coulson’s table.  However, to his dying day, Clint would deny that the challenging eyebrow Coulson arched in reply made his heart do anything as stupid as skip a beat.

*~*


	2. Murder Most Foul

 

_Apartment 401, Regent’s Court, London, June 18th, 1934_

Phil looked up from where he was meticulously rewriting his notes from his latest case at the sound of the ringing telephone.  A glance at the clock proved it was only a little after ten in the morning, which was still a little early for most of Phil’s callers.  Nevertheless, he put down his pen and answered the phone, absently wondering what it could be.  “Phillip Coulson, private detective,” he greeted.

“Ah, Coulson.”  The voice on the other end of the line was both familiar and relieved.  “A little birdy tells me that you had dinner at the Savoy Hotel last night and I’m really hoping that’s the case.”

Picking up the tension in his old friend’s voice, Phil found himself intrigued.  It took a lot to unsettle Detective Inspector Jasper Sitwell of Scotland Yard, but unsettled he was.  “I was,” he replied.  “What did you need my help with, Detective Inspector?”

“There’s been a murder,” Sitwell said grimly.  “And my gut feeling is that this case is going to be a messy one, so I was looking for all the help I can get.”

Phil felt the weight of Sitwell’s words sink in.  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he promised.

 

 

*~*

_The Savoy Hotel, London, June 18th, 1934_

By the time Phil arrived at the Savoy, he could already see the rumours of something had spread enough to bring the more curious guests out of their rooms.  He strode past them, nodding at the Sergeant on duty and headed down the richly decorated corridor to room number 508.  Sitwell met him at the door, his eyes uncharacteristically shadowed behind his glasses.  “You might want to brace yourself,” Sitwell said in a low voice.  “This isn’t a pretty one.”

Phil nodded and took a deep breath before he stepped into the room, already feeling slightly nauseous at the thick scent of blood that hung heavy in the air.  He crossed through the small entryway to the bedroom of the suite, already dreading what he might find.  It was only years of self-discipline that kept the flinch from his face when he stepped inside the bedroom.  Phil had seen a lot of blood and death in his life, first as a soldier during the Great War, and then as a detective with Scotland Yard, yet it somehow never prepared him for the sight of the next victim.  Breathing shallowly and ruthlessly suppressing his churning stomach, Phil allowed himself to clinically observe both the body and the scene, taking in the details as carefully as possible.  He’d glimpsed evil in the world before and there was no mistaking that same touch now.

“According to the maid that found the body, her name is Miss Christine Everhart,” Sitwell said quietly from just behind Phil’s shoulder.

Phil nodded.  The woman lay across the bed, her eyes sightless and her blonde hair tangled about her face and shoulders.  Her pale blue nightgown was twisted and the silk was stained with blood from the stab wounds on her chest and abdomen, as was the bedding beneath her.  The lamp on the bedside table had been broken and the pillows were scattered around the bed, showing that whoever her killer was, she had struggled against them in the end.  Glancing back at her face, Phil recognised her from the night before as one of the women dining with Tony Stark and Obadiah Stane and he told Sitwell as much.

“She’s Obadiah Stane’s fiancé,” Phil said.  “They were both dining with Anthony Stark and two others – a man and a woman – last night in the main dining room.  Miss Everhart had a large diamond ring that she doesn‘t appear to be wearing anymore as well as the Blue Star Diamond on her necklace.”

Sitwell hissed out a curse under his breath.  “The Blue Star Diamond?” he echoed.

Phil turned to glance at Sitwell when he heard the surprise and dread in the other detective’s voice.  “You haven’t found it?” he asked.

Sitwell shook his head.  “We’ve only done a cursory search so far and it’s possible the diamond was placed in the hotel safe by the clerk last night, but no,” he said.  “We did find an empty jewellery case.  And the diamond ring was left on the bedside table.”

He paused and Phil could feel Sitwell’s eyes watching him as Phil scanned the room again for anything else out of place.  “Do you think Miss Everhart was killed for the diamond?” Sitwell asked finally.

“It is possible,” Phil told him.  “But I don’t think there is enough evidence to confirm anything yet.”

Sitwell sighed.  “I didn’t think so,” he said.

Moving to the sitting room, Phil noted the travelling cases on the sofa and the empty jewellery box that had been found amongst them.  “She had company last night,” Phil said, crossing to the ashtray sitting on the table in front of the sofa.  He picked up one of the butts and caught the hunt of a familiar scent.  “French cigarettes,” he added, glancing at Sitwell.  “Not ones a socialite would usually smoke, either.”

Sitwell frowned.  “Do you think she knew her murderer?” he asked.

“It’s more than likely,” Phil replied, his eyes moving over the sitting room for anything else out of place.  “She let whoever it was into her suite without protest.”  He paused and frowned, before turning back to Sitwell.  “Although, I doubt the nightgown was for the murder’s benefit.  Judging by the damage, she started fighting them as soon as they entered her bedroom.  Do you have any idea what the murderer used to stab her?”

Sitwell shook his head.  “You were always better at that than I was, but I’ll try and put a rush on the coroner’s report,” he said.  “I’d better go downstairs call my superiors to let them know about the diamond.  Just ask the Sergeant if you need anything while I’m gone, Coulson.”

“I’ll come with you,” Phil said.  The scent of the blood was still making his stomach churn and he’d seen what he needed to from the crime scene.  He didn’t want to tempt the demons of his past by staying longer than necessary.

Sitwell gave him a brief glance, but didn’t say anything.  It was one of the things that made him such a good friend.  “Sure,” he agreed.  “You can use that polite smile of yours to ask the clerk about the diamond while we’re down there.”

 

 

*~*

Clint pushed through the revolving doors of the Savoy Hotel and immediately noticed something was wrong.  It was still at least an hour before noon, but the lobby was filled with the hum of conversation as guests sat around on chairs and sofas, their gazes bright with curiosity.  It was slightly more of an audience to his return than Clint was comfortable with, but he fixed a smirk on his face and tried to ignore the increased hum of conversation as people caught sight of him.  He could feel his hangover starting to thump at his temples, probably helped along by the several punches he’d taken to the head.  Nonchalantly swinging his dinner jacket over one shoulder, Clint added a slight swagger to his walk as he strode across the lobby.  He knew what he looked like with the way his tie was hanging untied around his neck and the faint trail of blood staining the collar of his shirt, but then he was as much of a scoundrel as his reputation suggested, so what did they all expect?

What Clint didn’t expect, however, was the figure of Phillip Coulson standing by the front desk.  He was dressed in a grey, three piece suit that was as expertly tailored as his black tie had been the night before and he carried his hat in his hand and a coat thrown casually over one arm.  The fabric of his suit made his eyes appear almost slate grey when they met Clint’s, but his expression remained carefully deadpan.  Coulson gave Clint a small nod of acknowledgment as their eyes met, but Clint didn’t get a chance to figure out what he meant by it before Coulson’s attention was caught by the conversation beside him.  Even without the uniformed police sergeant he was talking to, Clint would have picked the man in the dark suit next to Coulson as law enforcement in a heartbeat.  Part of it was the cheaper cut of his suit, but most of it was in the weary and worn way he held himself and the way his gaze continually moved around the lobby, as if searching for something.

Biting back a frown, Clint wondered what the hell Scotland Yard was doing at the Savoy Hotel.

 

 

*~*

Returning to his room to wash, Clint changed into a fresh suit, but left off the jacket and rolled the sleeves of the shirt to his elbows the way he preferred.  He might defer to polite society enough to wear a waistcoat and tie, but he was only going to see Natasha and she’d seen him in far worse situations than casual dishevelment.  As he knocked on the door of Natasha’s next-door suite, he hoped that Natasha had at least already ordered some coffee.

Her lips quirked into the hint of an amused smile when she opened the door.  “I wondered when you were going to get back,” she said, stepping back and letting Clint into the suite.

As fashionable as always, Natasha wore loose white trousers and a stylish black blouse, her lipstick the same shade of red as her nails and not a hair out of place.  She was absolutely beautiful and it was sometimes in moments like this one that Clint wished he could love Natasha in a different way than he did.  It was a fleeting wish; Natasha loved her freedom too much to be caged by marriage and Clint would never be able to be the husband she deserved anyway.

“Coffee?” Natasha asked over her shoulder as she led the way into the suites sitting room.

Clint looked gratefully towards the silver teapot sitting on the tray on the low table in the middle of the room as he sank into one of the plush armchairs.  “I would kill for some,” he answered with a smirk.

It was only through knowing Natasha as well as he did that he caught the small flinch that flickered through her eyes at his words.  Immediately, Clint tensed.  “Tash, what is it?” he asked softly.  “Does it have something to do with Scotland Yard being here?”

“There’s been a murder,” Natasha said calmly, sitting down in the armchair opposite Clint and gracefully pouring him a cup of coffee.  Her movements were smooth and controlled, but Clint could see the line of tension in her shoulders.  “Obadiah Stane’s fiancé was killed last night.”

Clint felt his own muscles tense further in response.  “Well, that would explain the presence of the famous Detective Coulson,” he said.

Natasha looked over at him sharply.  “Coulson is here?”

“I saw him in the lobby on my way in,” Clint replied with a nod.  He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee, watching Natasha carefully.  She was tightly controlling her movements, but Clint could see the faint tremor in her hand as she reached for her own coffee cup.  “Tash?”

Letting out a breath, Natasha looked up with eyes that held a trace of fear.  “I overheard two of the police sergeants talking,” she said.  “It’s not just a murder.  The Blue Star Diamond was stolen last night.”

Clint cursed under his breath.  He knew the rumours that swirled around Natasha, including the one that hinted she was a jewel thief suspected of stealing several other famous jewels across Europe.  “And you think they’re going to suspect you?” he said.

“I was alone in my room last night, Clint.  I don’t have an alibi.”

“I could tell them I was here,” Clint offered before he even really thought about it.

Natasha settled back into her chair, suddenly looking calmer as a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.  “Knowing you, Clint, you made enough of a menace of yourself that no one will ever believe you were here last night,” she said, before her eyes softened.  “But thank you.”

Clint smiled back and pulled the cigarette case out of his pocket.  “You know I’d do anything for you,” he said.

“I do,” Natasha said, her voice just as soft.

“Anyway,” Clint said, after he’d lit his cigarette and put the case back in his pocket.  “All we have to do is conduct an investigation of our own and figure out who really stole the diamond.  Then, if necessary, we can give Coulson and Scotland Yard a nudge in the right direction.”

Natasha gave a smoky chuckle.  “Clint, you just want to play detective.”

Clint shrugged, not denying it.  He was interrupted from saying anything else by a knock on the suite door.  “Ah, the sounds of impeccable timing by Scotland Yard,” he drawled.

“Clint, be nice,” Natasha said with a quirk of her lips as she rose gracefully to her feet.  “I’m not rescuing you if they decide to throw you in jail for insulting a police officer.”

 

 

*~*

Phil kept his smile polite and bland as the suite door opened to reveal Miss Natasha Romanoff.  Up this close, she was even more beautiful than people claimed, but Phil didn’t miss the sharply assessing look in her eyes either.  It wasn’t the look of a socialite assessing breeding and wealth, but instead a quick judgement of whether or not he and Sitwell posed a physical threat.  Phil was intrigued.  The only people he’d met who made assessments like that were the ones used to being in danger.

“Miss Natasha Romanoff?” Sitwell asked politely from beside Phil.  “My name is Detective Inspector Jasper Sitwell of Scotland Yard and this is Mr Phillip Coulson.  Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about your whereabouts last night?”

“Not at all,” Miss Romanoff said, returning Sitwell’s polite smile, but Phil could see the tension running beneath it.  “Please come in.”

Phil and Sitwell followed Miss Romanoff into the sitting room of her suite and Phil wasn’t surprised in the slightest to see Clint Barton sprawled with cat-like grace in one of the armchairs, even though Phil knew for a fact that he had a suite of his own.  He’d changed out of the rumpled black tie he’d worn as he’d sauntered across the Savoy’s lobby less than an hour ago into neatly pressed dark grey trousers and a matching waistcoat.  His jacket was nowhere to be seen and although he wore a tie, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt had been rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle.  He held a cigarette casually between his rough fingers, a trail of smoke curling through the air, and his sharp blue eyes missed nothing as they followed Phil as he moved through the room.

Miss Romanoff politely gestured for them to take a seat and Phil waited until she’d taken her own in the other armchair before sitting carefully beside Sitwell on the sofa.  “This is Mr Clint Barton,” Miss Romanoff introduced.  “Clint, this is Detective Inspector Jasper Sitwell of Scotland Yard and Mr Phillip Coulson, the famous detective.”

Phil glanced towards Miss Romanoff at the faint trace of something else beneath the polite introduction.  Barton nodded his own greeting without moving from his chair.  “Detective Inspector,” he said, his eyes dancing with a faint mocking.  “Mr Coulson.”

Sitwell consulted his notebook.  “You’re staying in the suite next door, is that correct Mr Barton?” he asked.

“Yes,” Barton replied with a smirk and offering no other information.

“And can your account for your movements last night?” Sitwell asked, flipping to a blank page in his notebook with his pencil poised.  “I believe you and Miss Romanoff had dinner in the main dining room, is that not also correct?”

“Why don’t you ask Mr Coulson,” Barton said, breathing out a stream of smoke.  “He was there.”

Phil didn’t miss the look of irritation Miss Romanoff sent him at his comment.  “We did have dinner in the main dining room last night,” she said.  “Our reservation was for half past seven and we left a little before nine.”

As Sitwell wrote that down, Phil continued to watch Miss Romanoff.  His own memories placed their arrival at closer to quarter to eight, but Phil didn’t think that held any particular importance.  “And where did you go after that?” Sitwell asked.

“Out for a drink,” Barton said, breathing out another trail of smoke.  “At the Green Dragon.”

Phil hid any hint of his own smirk from his face, but he couldn’t help but think the Green Dragon Club suited both Barton and Miss Romanoff.  Phil had been to the bar a few times himself and while it was respectable enough, it also wasn’t a place where many members of polite society ventured.  The Green Dragon Club was known for the exotic as well as blind discretion for a wide variety of things.  After watching Miss Romanoff and Barton over dinner, Phil wasn’t surprised they’d both preferred to visit a place where they could drop their masks of civility for an hour or two.

“And at what time did you leave the Green Dragon?” Sitwell asked.

“I left just before midnight,” Miss Romanoff said.  “And I returned here to the hotel.”

Sitwell nodded, made a few more notes and looked up.  “And you, Mr Barton?”

Something hard and flinty entered Barton’s sharp eyes.  “I believe I left around one this morning, but that’s not exact,” he said, blowing out a final plume of smoke and stubbing out his cigarette.  “I wanted to try my hand at a few gaming rooms and the like.  I believe you were both there when I returned this morning.”

“Right,” Sitwell said, noting it all down.

Because he was watching, Phil saw Barton relax a fraction when Sitwell’s expression never shifted from a mild look of concentration as he wrote his notes.  “And can anyone confirm your return to the hotel, Miss Romanoff?” he asked, looking up again.

“I’m afraid not, Detective Inspector,” she said, her expression shifting towards flirtatious.  “I was quite alone.”

Sitwell blinked a little and cleared his throat.  “Well, I think that’s all the questions I have for now,” he said, a little awkwardly.  “Coulson, do you have anything you’d like to ask?”

“No, I don’t,” Phil said.  “I think I’ve learnt everything I need to.”

Barton’s eyes narrowed a little in Phil’s direction.  “Already figured us out, have you Detective?” he asked, his tone hard-edged and mocking.

Phil smiled his blandest smile in reply.  “I’m afraid I’m not here to figure you out, Mr Barton,” he said.  “I’m only after the truth.  And considering neither of you lied to me, that is what I received.  Thank you both for your cooperation.”

He could tell Sitwell was fighting a smile beside him as they stood, both Barton and Miss Romanoff not quite successfully covering their surprise at his words.  Phil was well aware of what most people thought of him when he questioned them, but Phil generally learnt more about a suspect by how they answered questions, not by what they said.  In this case, he’d seen that while Miss Romanoff could definitely hold her own, Barton was very protective of her.  Barton also seemed to have a rather large issue with authority, which might prove problematic in the future.  “Good day, Mr Barton, Miss Romanoff,” he said politely, before he and Sitwell saw themselves out.

Sitwell was grinning by the time they reached the corridor outside the suite, but his expression turned more serious as he turned to Phil.  “I suppose you’re going to want to question everyone else who was dining at the Savoy last night?”

Phil nodded.  “I can do it alone,” he said.  “There’s no need to draw attention to the fact I’m asking questions as well.”

“Discreet enquiries, Coulson?” Sitwell asked, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smile again.

Phil arched an eyebrow in his direction.  “You were the one who asked me for help,” he replied mildly.

Sitwell huffed good-naturedly.  “Will it hurt those discreet enquiries of yours for Romanoff and Barton to know you’re working with me?” he asked.

“No,” Phil said.  “In fact, it was probably useful.  My instincts are telling me that any sign of deception will lose what little trust of theirs we have.”

“And keeping their trust is important?”

Phil nodded.  “Have you managed to contact Miss Everhart’s fiancé yet?” he asked, changing the subject slightly; he couldn’t exactly tell Sitwell, but there was a large part of him that didn’t want to lose Barton’s trust in any way at all and it had little to do with the murder case.

“No,” Sitwell said.  “But don’t worry, Coulson, you’ll be the first to know when we do.”

 

 

*~*

Clint stared at the doorway after the detectives left for a long moment, lost in his thoughts.  Coulson hadn’t been what he’d expected at all.  Clint wasn’t exactly sure what he _had_ expected, but he didn’t think it was for Coulson to silently watch as Detective Inspector Sitwell questioned him and Natasha.  Those grey-blue eyes hadn’t missed _anything_ however and that had unnerved Clint more than anything else.  Everyone had secrets, but Clint’s and Natasha’s were darker than most and he didn’t like the idea of anyone finding them out.  It didn’t matter than Coulson only claimed to want to find out the truth behind the murder; Clint knew how the world worked and he knew the gossip that swirled around himself and Natasha.  It was only a matter of time before Coulson and his friend from Scotland Yard were back and accusing Natasha or himself of something they didn’t do.

“Oh, I don’t like that expression,” Natasha said.  “That expression always leads to trouble.”

Clint blinked and turned to look at her.  “What expression?” he asked with feigned innocence.

Natasha frowned.  “The one where you glare at everything and then later on I find out you tried to sneak your way into the scene of a crime,” she said.  “Clint... please don’t get into trouble on my account.”

He looked at the hint of fear that still remained in Natasha’s eyes and felt his resolve harden.  She’d already been torn from her life once and thrust into a nightmare and Clint wasn’t about to let it happen again.  Natasha might have been the strongest woman he’d ever met, but she was also family and Clint didn’t like to see his family get hurt.  “Yours is the only account I have to get in trouble over, Tash,” he said softly.

“Fine,” Natasha said with a frown, but Clint could see the way her eyes had gone suspiciously bright.  “But like I said before, I’m not going to rescue you if the Detective Inspector ends up throwing you in jail.”

 

 

*~*


	3. The Scoundrel Finds a Clue

 

 

It was surprisingly easy to get into Miss Everhart’s rooms, even with the police sergeant standing in front of the door keeping the rest of the guests out.  Or, rather, it was easy for Clint, mostly because he hadn’t taken the conventional route.  Clint rarely followed convention.  Instead, he’d slipped silently and easily into the suite above Miss Everhart’s with the set of lock picks he always carried with him.  From there, things had been simple, if rather dangerous; people rarely looked out onto the balcony of the room they were guarding and they almost never expected anyone to be dropping down from the balcony above.  With a fluid and practiced move, Clint had swung his body over the balcony railing and a twist in mid-air later, landed on the floor below.

Quietly, Clint opened the door to the sitting room to slip inside the suite and paused for a moment to look around.  There were no signs of blood or a struggle anywhere in the sitting room, nor was there any other sign the body had been discovered there.  His sharp gaze picked out the details of the room, searching for any clue as to what had happened the night before and he noted the series of small, fine leather carrying cases on the sofa.  One of them was open, a silk scarf caught in the opening and nestled amongst the bright fabric was a small jewellery case.  Glancing towards the door of the suite to make sure he was still alone, Clint walked over the small jewellery case and pulled it out, but whatever had been inside was not there now.

Making sure to put the jewellery case back where he found it, Clint crossed to the bedroom.  He sucked in a sharp breath as soon as he stepped through the doorway.  The large, rust coloured stain on the tangled sheets proved that Miss Everhart had met her not so pretty end right there.  A stabbing was most likely, given the amount of blood, but Clint made a note to keep an ear out for talkative police sergeants in case he could learn a few more details.  The bedside lamp had been knocked over and there were signs of a struggle, proving that at least Miss Everhart had fought in the end.  The lack of similar signs in the rest of the suite however made Clint wonder if she had perhaps known whoever killed her, at least enough to let them into her bedroom.  Without knowing when she died, Clint couldn’t tell much else, but he let his sharp gaze scan the room again, just in case.

When a flash of gold caught his eye, he had to blink in surprise.  Half hidden underneath the sheets that were trailing on the floor near the edge of the bed was a small, gold cufflink.  Clint carefully crouched down to pick it up, eyeing the expensive quality before he put it in his pocket.  He couldn’t guarantee the cufflink belonged to the murderer and therefore the thief, but it did prove that someone male had been in Miss Everhart’s bedroom and recently.  Clint was guessing that a cufflink would be missed, so chances were it had been dropped sometime after dinner the night before.

Straightening, Clint looked for anything else out of place and noted the fine layer of fingerprint powder over most of the surfaces in the room.  He knew that logically the suite would only have been left empty after Scotland Yard had already searched it for clues, but Clint couldn’t help but hope that they’d missed something else.  No matter what impression he got from Coulson and his friend the Detective Inspector, Clint wasn’t willing to leave this case to them.  Not if they were going to suspect Natasha.  He walked around the bed, trying to spot anything that didn’t belong, but there didn’t seem to be anything else and Clint frowned.

He left the bedroom and headed through the small foyer towards the door to the suite, hoping the police sergeant would be distracted enough for a moment so he could sneak out because he wouldn’t be able to go back upstairs via the balcony.  Natasha would accuse him of being impulsive for sneaking into the scene of the crime without an exit strategy, but Clint had always preferred to follow his instincts.  Opening the door, he spotted the Sergeant with his back to the suite carefully watching the corridor.  As if on cue, the elevators opened a moment later and Natasha sauntered out, catching the Sergeant’s attention.  She smiled seductively as she passed him, before artfully dropping her purse.  As the Sergeant gallantly bent to pick it up for her, Clint snuck out of the suite and headed down the corridor, smirking at Natasha.  She rolled her eyes in response and Clint was around the corner before the Sergeant had even looked up again.

 

*~*

Phil stepped into the dining room and found the woman he’d been searching for.  Miss Virginia Potts, Pepper to her friends, had been Anthony Stark’s loyal secretary for years.  There had been rumours circulating for almost as long about her supposed infatuation with the millionaire industrialist, but Phil had always taken them with a grain of salt.  Observing the poised and elegant woman in front of him, Phil was only more willing to dismiss the rumours as false.  “Forgive the rude interruption,” Phil said politely as he reached the table where Miss Potts was sitting.  “I was wondering if I might join you.  You look as if you might need some company.”

Miss Potts looked up with a politely reserved smile, but her face was pale and she looked clearly unsettled.  “If I may introduce myself?” Phil continued.  “My name is Phillip Coulson.”

The smile on Miss Potts’ face remained reservedly polite at Phil’s introduction, but her eyes warmed slightly.  “Ah, the famous detective,” she said.  “You’re welcome to join me, but I don’t know how much company I will be.”  She held out her hand in the forthright way Americans had, even though her accent placed her as English.  “Miss Pepper Potts,” she introduced herself.  “Although, I’m guessing you already knew that.”

“I must confess that I did,” Phil admitted with a smile as he sat down opposite her.

He nodded to the waiter as he placed another tea cup on the table and smiled at Miss Potts as she poured him some tea.  “So what questions did you have for me, Mr Coulson?” she asked.  “I assume you’re here helping Scotland Yard with their investigation of this horrid… business.”

“I am here to give any assistance I can,” Phil replied.

Miss Potts smiled knowingly.  “You’re here to help solve the murder,” she said, flinching slightly at the last word.  “You wouldn’t be here without Scotland Yard’s permission and they wouldn’t have called you in if they didn’t need help.”

Phil smiled.  “I will need to be wary of underestimating you, Miss Potts,” he said.  “You’re a lot more astute than people give you credit for.”

“I could say the same for you, Detective,” she said, eyeing him carefully.

Miss Potts paused for a moment, before smiling somewhat amusedly.  “Are you going to quiz me about my whereabouts last night?” she asked.  Then her face clouded and she set down her teacup on the saucer with a click.  “Oh, I shouldn’t be joking.  Poor Christine.  I might not have liked her, but she didn’t deserve this.”

“The victims rarely do,” Phil told her softly.  “But you needn’t feel guilty, either.  Only the ones responsible should feel guilty.”

“And do they?” Miss Potts asked.  “The murderers, I mean.”

Phil nodded.  “Sometimes,” he said.  “And sometimes they don’t.  But I can assure you, Miss Potts, that I will always do my best to make sure they can never kill again.”

Miss Potts’ answering smile grew stronger as she nodded.  “Then you’d better ask me about my whereabouts, Detective.”

Hiding his smile, Phil attempted to school his expression into something more deadpan, but judging by Miss Potts’ own expression, she could read the humour in his eyes.  “You were here at the Savoy for dinner last night, were you not?” he said.

Miss Potts nodded.  “Yes,” she replied.  “It was actually rather last minute.  Obadiah… Mr Stane wasn’t supposed to join us until the day after tomorrow, but he found some time early and invited us all out to dinner to celebrate his engagement to Christine.”

“Those weren’t your original plans?” Phil asked softly.

Shaking her head, Miss Potts gave him a wry sort of smile.  “Truthfully, I didn’t have any other plans, but no, I didn’t learn about Mr Stane’s dinner reservation until about five last evening.”

Phil nodded, making a mental note of that.  “Can you tell me where you went after dinner last night?” he asked.

“Mr Stane left at about half past ten to conduct a few things at the office he keeps in the city, before he was due to leave for Paris early this morning,” she said.  “Christine went to see him off, while Bruce – Dr Banner – and I helped Mr Stark up to bed.  He was, well, to be truthful Mr Coulson, he was drunk.”

“Drunk enough to fall asleep for the entire night?” Phil said.

Miss Potts’ face hardened slightly at the implication.  “I don’t care what the gossips say about his relationship with Christine,” she said firmly.  “Tony is capable of a lot of things, but murder is not one of them.”

Phil nodded.  “I hope that you are correct, Miss Potts,” he said softly.

Miss Potts’ face lost its edge at his words.  “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Phil said.  “I never wish for anyone to find out that one of their family is a murderer.”

Miss Potts’ face softened even further.  “You don’t believe in rumours, do you, Detective?” she said.  “Most people would say that I was infatuated with my employer, not that I consider him family.”

Phil took a sip of tea and gently placed the cup on the saucer before replying.  “Rumour isn’t always truth,” he said.  “And the truth is what I look for.”

Miss Potts smiled.  “Then, yes, Detective, I believe that Tony slept all night.  He woke up with a hangover around ten this morning.”

“And you and Dr Banner?” he asked.

“We stayed up talking until a little before midnight,” Miss Potts replied.  “Then we both retired to our rooms to sleep.  They’re both part of Mr Stark’s suite.”

Phil nodded, making a careful mental note of the time.  The time of death had yet to be confirmed by the coroner, but Phil rather suspected Miss Everhart had been killed around one in the morning, giving both Miss Potts and Dr Banner – and possibly even Stark himself – opportunity.  Phil didn’t believe any of them were actually guilty of the murder, but he knew better than to rule them out of his investigation yet.

“Is there anything else you can remember, Miss Potts?” he asked.  “Either from last night or before that you found a little strange?  Perhaps something Miss Everhart confided in you?”

“I’m afraid Christine never confided in me, Detective,” Miss Potts answered.  “She didn’t like me very much.  And I don’t remember anything strange about last night.  Although…”  She paused for a moment.  “Actually, there was something a little strange.  I remember thinking it was a little odd that Bruce didn’t say anything in defence of Miss Carter when Christine spotted her dining at the other table.”

Miss Potts gave Phil a wry smile.  “Christine didn’t like Miss Carter very much and I was always under the impression the feeling was mutual.  In particular, Miss Carter didn’t like the way Christine was always parading the Blue Star Diamond around at parties and I think they had words about it.”  She paused again and frowned.  “I could have sworn that she and Bruce knew each other, but he didn’t say anything at all about it last night.”

“And do you know Miss Carter?” Phil asked.

“We’ve met several times at parties, but I wouldn’t say that I know her,” Miss Potts said.

“I think then that I can conclude the interrogation, Miss Potts,” Phil told her with a smile.  “Thank you for the tea…”

“No, please,” Miss Potts said, reaching across the table to place her hand on Phil’s and stop him leaving.  “Stay.  If you want to.  You weren’t wrong when you said I wanted company.”

Phil smiled.  “Then how can I refuse?”

 

*~*

Clint stepped into the Savoy’s dining room, not really sure what he was looking for until his sharp gaze landed on Phillip Coulson.  The detective was sitting at a table with Anthony Stark’s secretary Pepper Potts, having tea of all things.  It looked like he was completely charming her, if Miss Potts’ laughter was any indication.  Clint wasn’t sure why he found that fact so irritating but he certainly wasn’t about to examine it too deeply.  He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.  Instead, Clint did what he usually did when he found something unsettling that he didn’t understand; he took a seat in one of the more shadowy corners of the dining room and watched.

Whatever it was that the great Detective Coulson and Miss Potts were talking about, it wasn’t grim enough to be the murder.  Inwardly, Clint raised an eyebrow, because it didn’t speak too highly of the supposedly famous detective if he took time off the case to flirt with a pretty face instead of investigating like he was supposed to.  A part of Clint’s mind said that he was being unfair on Coulson, because those sharp eyes of his didn’t seem to have missed much when sat in on Clint and Natasha’s questioning, but Clint had met one too many corrupt men to listen to it too closely.

As he continued to watch, Coulson made Miss Potts laugh again and in response, Miss Potts reached across the table to put her hand over Coulson’s for a moment.  The gesture made something inside Clint want to growl.  The moment was interrupted, however, by Anthony Stark himself sweeping into the dining room, looking a little worse for wear.  “Pepper!” Stark called out as soon as he spotted his secretary.

Miss Potts looked up and for a moment fond amusement flashed in her eyes.  “Have you seen Bruce?” Stark continued loudly as he walked up to the table where she was sitting, almost completely ignoring Coulson.

With a glance down at her watch, Miss Potts started slightly.  “Oh!” she said; even though her voice was not nearly as loud as Stark’s, Clint could still hear her from where he was sitting.  “I’m so sorry, Detective.  I’m afraid we have an appointment this afternoon and if we don’t hurry, we’ll be late.”

“We will?” Stark said.  “Wait… Detective?  This is the world famous Detective Coulson?”

Coulson rose fluidly to his feet when he saw Miss Potts starting to rise to hers and Clint watched as he smoothly offered his hand to Stark.  As impeccable as his manners were, there was something about the detective that told Clint his past hadn’t always involved dining rooms and high society.  “Mr Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Coulson greeted and after a moment of hesitation, Stark accepted the handshake.

“Detective,” Stark said.

“Right, come on Tony.  Bruce should be upstairs in the suite,” Miss Potts said briskly, clearly used to dealing with the playboy millionaire, who Clint was interested to note, was still eyeing Coulson suspiciously.  Stark’s eyes narrowed when Miss Potts turned back to Coulson and gave him a soft smile.  “Detective, we’ll have to do this again sometime,” she said.

“We will indeed, Miss Potts,” Coulson replied with a hint of his own smile.

Clint wasn’t sure what to make of the exchange as he watched Miss Potts expertly escort Stark out of the dining room.  Taking his opportunity, he got up from his chair and walked over to where Phil was just sitting back down, smoothly slipping into the chair Miss Potts’ had just vacated.  “Working hard, Detective?” he asked, unable to keep the edge of mocking out of his voice.

“Mr Barton,” Coulson greeted mildly, seeming unsurprised at Clint’s sudden appearance, which Clint had to admit was a little impressive.  He’d gone for the dramatic for a reason.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Coulson asked after a long beat of silence, before he casually took a sip of tea.

“Just wondering if the great detective had come up with any theories yet,” Clint answered.  He reached into the jacket that he’d been forced to put on before he came downstairs for his cigarette case, knowing that it would probably irritate Coulson and even if it didn’t, it would give Clint something to do with his hands.

“I’m flattered that you think I can work that fast, Mr Barton,” Coulson replied in his mild tone.  “But it has only been three hours since I was called in.”

Clint lit his cigarette, his gaze taking in Coulson as the other man stared back at him with a deadpan expression.  The detective was surprisingly hard to unsettle which intrigued Clint against his better instincts.  He was going to have to do something a lot more devious and dramatic if he wanted to crack the other man – or at least unsettle him enough to give something away.  “So you’re telling me you have no suspicions at all?” Clint said.  “That’s strange, because you seemed fairly suspicious earlier.”

Coulson arched an eyebrow and the hint of a smile crossed his face, as if he’d figured out a clue Clint had given away.  Clint wasn’t sure he liked the fact that he might have and it unsettled him that someone other than Natasha might be able to read him when he didn’t want them to.  “Ah,” Coulson said softly.  “You’re worried about Miss Romanoff and you don’t believe that I won’t believe the rumours about her.”

Clint felt something in him harden and he knew his gaze had turned sharp and predatory as he stared Coulson down.  “And do you?” he asked.

“No,” Coulson said, his deadpan expression never shifting and his eyes as sharp as Clint’s.  “There’s never been a single piece of proof linking Miss Romanoff to any of the thefts,” he added.  Another hint of a smile cross his face, expect this one didn’t reach those sharp grey-blue eyes.  “Besides, and I have advised Interpol of the same thing, the investigators should be looking for a man, not a woman.  As impressive as I’m sure Miss Romanoff is, she lacks the upper body strength to force open the safes the way they were.  Does that reassure you a little more, Mr Barton?”

Clint felt a shiver go down his spine.  He’d been right last night.  Coulson was definitely dangerous.  All Clint had to do now was figure out if Coulson was going to be a threat to him and Natasha.  “Maybe,” he said, keeping his thoughts off his face and blowing out a plume of smoke.  “But I’m not a man who’s that easily placated.”

Coulson settled back in his chair, looking completely relaxed despite the conversation.  “Then what is it that you’re proposing, Mr Barton?” he asked.

“You let me help,” Clint said.  He kept his expression challenging with Coulson’s sharp gaze fixed on him and tried not to let any of his uncertainty show.  “It’s fairly obvious that I wasn’t involved and you know it.  So let me help you.”

“Just like that?” Coulson asked and Clint couldn’t read the expression that crossed his face.

Clint took a deep breath.  Natasha was _family_ and to keep her safe he would do things that were a lot more dangerous or risky than admitting a few things to a detective, but that didn’t make admitting them any easier.  As much as Clint’s life had taught him not to trust anyone, there was a strangely calm part of him that wanted to trust the detective in front of him without Clint knowing why.  “Don’t you have anyone in your life that you’re willing to do anything for, Detective?” Clint asked softly.  “I do and I won’t let anyone send her to the hangman for something she didn’t do.”

Coulson glanced away for a moment, hiding whatever emotion flashed through his eyes.  Clint was a little surprised that it had been his comment about Natasha that had finally managed to break-through the detective’s deadpan mask.  “I haven’t had anyone like that in my life for a long time,” Coulson said, his voice almost too soft for Clint to pick up.  Then he straightened and locked his emotions back behind his bland mask.  “As noble as the sentiment is, it doesn’t mean I can trust you with an ongoing investigation, either, Mr Barton,” he added.

Clint nodded and decided to play his last card.  This would either convince Coulson to let him help with the case or screw his chances of investigating on his own.  “You missed something in the victim’s bedroom,” he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out the cufflink he’d found.  “I found it just underneath her bed.”

Those sharp grey-blue eyes locked onto his again for a moment, before Coulson let them drift down to eye the cufflink.  “I suppose asking you how you got past the police sergeant would be a waste of time?” he asked, a trace of irritation underneath his mild tone and Clint felt a little thrill of victory at having found something the detective had missed.

“You can’t ask me to give up all my secrets quite that easily,” Clint replied with a smirk.

Coulson’s eyes drifted back up and Clint was surprised to see that they’d lost some of their sharpness and gained a trace of humour instead.  “Something tells me, Mr Barton, that nothing about you is easy,” he replied.  “May I see the cufflink?”

“Are you going to let me work on the case?” Clint countered, holding back the cufflink from Coulson’s outstretched palm.

“For some reason, yes,” Coulson said dryly.  “I’ll accept your help.  But I warn you, Mr Barton, I meant what I told you earlier: I seek the truth, no matter how elusive that might be.  I will find who is responsible for this and even your friend is not above my suspicion until I can prove otherwise.”

Clint nodded.  Coulson was telling the truth, but he was also a straightforward man.  He didn’t seem to rely on the games and artifices other men of society used and those sharp eyes and an equally sharp mind saw beneath the polish of manners of those around him.  Working closely with him would risk exposing Clint’s own secrets, but there was also a chance that Clint could trust Coulson with proving Natasha innocent and it was a risk he was willing to take.  “Well then,” Clint smirked, dropping the cufflink on Coulson’s waiting palm.  “I guess this makes us partners.”

“Yes,” Coulson agreed.  “It seems so.”

 

*~*

Phil stared down at the small, gold cufflink in his palm, part of his mind observing the expensive quality and part of his mind wondering at the way he’d let Barton get involved.  It was undeniable that Barton would have kept investigating on his own if Phil had said no, but Phil’s agreement was more than just trying to keep the other man out of trouble.  Something deep in Phil’s gut was telling him that Barton was going to play an important role in this case and possibly Phil’s life; Phil just couldn’t tell if that was instinct or wishful thinking.

“So now what happens, Detective?” Barton asked, but the edge of mocking had left his voice.

Watching Barton blow out a lazy plume of smoke, Phil refused to be irritated by the cigarette or the distraction of those long, agile fingers.  “Have you ever investigated anything before?” Phil asked him.

Barton’s expression flickered with momentary annoyance at not having his question answered, before the smirk slipped back onto his face.  “I’m hardly Scotland Yard trained, but I have unravelled a mystery or two in my time,” he replied.

Phil nodded, having suspected as much.  Despite his surroundings and the tailored fit of his clothes, Phil could see that Barton was a man who had spent most of his life using his instincts and sharp, assessing gaze to get himself out of danger – and Phil was willing to bet most of the danger had been the life or death kind.  “Use your instincts,” he said to Barton.  “You were at dinner last night and you’re staying at the hotel.  Anything strange or unusual you can find or remember might be the key to finding out what happened.”  Phil paused, assessing Barton for another moment.  “Also, we have yet to find the murder weapon.  The victim was stabbed, but I can’t tell you anything more detailed until I see the coroner’s report.”

Barton looked slightly surprised.  “You want me to find the murder weapon?” he said.

“Working with me does imply you will have to do actual work, Mr Barton,” Phil replied.

This time, Barton’s smirk was full of dark humour.  “I thought you didn’t trust me,” he said, breathing out another plume of smoke as his piercing eyes stared into Phil’s.

“I don’t,” Phil agreed.  “Not yet.”

“Then why trust me with something so important?” Barton asked, as if he hadn’t spent the first half of their conversation trying to convince Phil to do just that.

“Because you said you had someone important to you that you would do anything for,” Phil told him softly, feeling the longing those words had conjured curling through his chest again.  “And because at one o’clock this morning, while our victim was being killed, you were in a fight with two thugs in an alleyway down by the docks because even though you were just passing by, you refused to let the men beat a prostitute.”

Phil let himself smile at Barton’s stunned expression, but it was bittersweet.  Drawing out his pocket-watch from his vest, Phil glanced at the time and decided Sitwell should have had enough time to talk to his superiors and get a copy of the coroner’s report by now.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me I should go and see Detective Inspector Sitwell about the coroner’s report,” he said, rising to his feet.  Barton made no move to stand with him, but then Phil hadn’t expected that.  Barton’s eyes were watching him with a complicated and unreadable expression, however, and Phil wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“I’ll let you know anything I find,” Phil added, with a nod in Barton’s direction.  “Have a good day, Mr Barton.”

 

*~*


	4. The Investigation Continues

 

_Scotland Yard, London, June 18th, 1934_

Something about Scotland Yard always unsettled Phil, no matter the reason he had for stepping through the doors.  He’d never managed to quite pinpoint what it was, but the beige walls and the hint of misery and death that clung to the building always made something in his stomach clench.  It was a feeling he’d ignored when he’d been a Scotland Yard detective in order to do his job, but Phil couldn’t help but feel relieved when it had stopped being a daily part of his life.  Thankfully, this visit had him heading straight to Sitwell’s office and avoiding the morgue, which had always made the feeling ten times worse.

Sitwell looked up from his desk when Phil knocked on the open door, a half-eaten lunch of fish and chips still half-wrapped in newspaper beside him.  “Coulson,” Sitwell greeted with a smile and waved him into the office.  “I assume you’ve come to check on the coroner’s report?”

Phil nodded and had to bite back a small smile of his own when Sitwell closed the file he’d been reading and handed it over.  “As far as the coroner is concerned, Miss Everhart was killed at about one o’clock this morning,” Sitwell said quietly, confirming Phil’s suspicions as Phil began to read the coroner’s notes for himself.  “She was stabbed multiple times by a long, thin blade, most likely a letter opener.  The angle of the wounds and the bruising on her wrists and legs suggests the murderer held her down while he killed her.”

His eyes glanced over the photos pushed towards the back of the file, but Phil didn’t look at them for long.  He’d seen Miss Everhart’s body for himself that morning and once had been enough to have the scene fixed in his memory.  Phil held back a shudder.  Whoever had killed Miss Everhart had been very brutal and very angry.  “Did someone check the stationary desk in her suite?” he asked, closing the file and handing to back to Sitwell and ignoring how the scent of fish and chips was starting to make him feel nauseous.

“I did,” Sitwell said.  “The letter opener is definitely missing.”

Absently, Phil nodded as he filed the fact away.  “Whoever murdered Miss Everhart didn’t go to her suite intending to,” he said.  “There was no preparation.  The murderer grabbed the first weapon he could find before they went into her bedroom.”

There was a moment of silence as Sitwell nodded gravely in agreement.  “Do you think it was her lover?”

Phil shook his head.  “No,” he replied.  “She started to fight when they entered her bedroom and I doubt she would have done it if it had been her lover.  But I do think it was a man.”

“Not even if her lover was in a jealous rage?” Sitwell asked.

Pausing, Phil shook his head a little, giving his equivalent of a shrug.  “It is possible,” he said.

“But you don’t think so,” Sitwell said.

“No I don’t,” Phil told him.  “It seems too simple and it doesn’t explain what happened to the Blue Star Diamond.”

Sitwell sighed.  “Of course it isn’t that simple,” he muttered, before he eyed Phil wryly.  “Well, when you figure it out before I do, please don’t forget to actually tell me who to arrest.”

Phil smiled at his old friend.  “I won’t,” he replied.

 

*~*

_The Savoy Hotel, London, June 18th, 1934_

Clint peered around the corner, half pressed against the thick and expensive wallpaper of the Savoy’s fourth floor corridor.  He was fairly certain that this hadn’t been what Coulson had thought of when he suggested Clint do some of his own investigating, but conversation had never really been his thing.  He was also fairly sure that none of the current guests at the Savoy would suddenly confess their deep, dark secrets to a scoundrel with his reputation, which left Clint’s current option; it was a good thing he was a master at sneaking.

Not that sneaking around after people had taught him much.  Of all the dinner guests dining at the Savoy last night, only seven of them were actually staying at the hotel if he didn’t include Natasha or himself.  He’d overheard enough conversations between maids and police sergeants that afternoon to know that according to the reports, Sir John Stern, MP, lived elsewhere in London and Obadiah Stane had left the Savoy after dinner for a business appointment and then left for Paris that morning.  Clint wasn’t convinced that either of the men had an adequate alibi for the murder, but they weren’t around to follow either.  It did however give Clint pause, because last night Miss Everhart had let someone into her suite at a very early hour of the morning and that person had then killed her.  The cynical part of Clint’s mind immediately thought she could have been waiting for a lover while her fiancé was away, but something about that thought nagged at him.

Clint had spent the rest of the afternoon watching Justin Hammer have tea in the downstairs dining room and flirt ridiculously with two maids, and now he was following Miss Margaret Carter, Steve Rogers and James Barnes as they headed out to the next-door Savoy Theatre for the afternoon performance.  Nothing about the three childhood friends seemed overly suspicious, however, but Clint did learn that the three of them had grown up together, with Rogers being the son of a neighbouring family to the Carters and Barnes having grown up in the nearby village.

“Clint, what are you doing?”

Clint refused to admit he jumped at the sound of Natasha’s voice from right beside him.  Cursing under his breath, he levelled a dark glare at her, before ducking completely around the corner, so Rogers, Barnes and Miss Carter couldn’t see him if they turned around.  “Tash, did you have to scare years off my life like that?” he grumbled.

Natasha gave him a pointed look.  “What are you doing?” she repeated.

With a final glance around the corner to make sure no one had realised Clint was behind them, Clint turned back to Natasha.  “Investigating,” he said softly with a smirk and a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Natasha hit him in the stomach with enough force to make Clint grunt.  “You’re going to get yourself in trouble!” she hissed.

Clint scowled in response.  “I’m helping,” he hissed back.

Her expression softening for a moment, Natasha placed her hand on Clint’s elbow.  “I know you think you are, Clint…” she began.

“Look,” Clint interrupted her.  “I made a deal with Detective Coulson.  I’m helping him so that I can prove you innocent of all of this.”

Natasha arched a rather sceptical eyebrow.  Clint gave her a look in reply that hopefully conveyed how much he appreciated the lack of faith from his best friend.  “If you ask me to, Tash, I’ll stop and let Coulson and Scotland Yard handle this without interference,” he said, because as painful as that would be, if Natasha asked him he would do it in a heartbeat.

“No, I…” Natasha said, before she trailed off.  Clearing her throat, she pasted a more playful expression over her uncertainty and sent Clint another look.  “Did you think that perhaps Coulson wanted you to ask a few discreet questions instead of following people around?” she asked.

“Yes, because I’m so good at that,” Clint muttered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Natasha trying to hide her smile of agreement.  “Just… be careful,” she said, the playfulness leaving her expression for a solemn moment.

“I promise,” Clint replied.

*~*

Later that evening, Phil found himself standing in the same dining room as the night before, watching the now more sombre guests huddle in small groups and try to pretend they weren’t talking about the fact that Miss Everhart had been found dead that morning.  Phil himself was beginning to feel the effects of the frustrating day.  After reading the coroner’s report, Phil had stayed to go over the other clues Sitwell had found in the crime scene, but nothing had proved to be helpful.  They’d been no signs of an intruder in the suite, confirming Phil’s suspicion that Miss Everhart had known her murderer.  One of the police sergeants had also found some cheaper jewellery and a note amongst Miss Everhart’s belongings that had confirmed that she had indeed had a lover; the note, however, had been frustratingly unsigned.

Phil had yet to question everyone who had dined at the Savoy the night before, because not all of them were guests of the hotel.  He hadn’t had a chance to either talk to Sir John Stern or Obadiah Stane, although Sitwell had informed him that Stane was due back in London in the morning and had given a copy of the notes he’d taken as he’d briefly questioned Stern.  There was just something that was still bothering Phil about the events of the night before and he frustratingly couldn’t figure out what it was.

Making an exception to one of his rules about drinking on a case as it was well after eight now, Phil wandered towards the bar for something a little stronger than wine.  Across the hall from the main dining room, the bar was full of rich wood panelling and comfortable leather chairs.  As soon as he stepped inside, Phil spotted Miss Margaret Carter and her two friends sitting near the bar enjoying cocktails.  Phil found himself smiling at Peggy’s bright laughter before he could stop himself, memories of the shy, pigtailed girl she had once been drifting through his head.

“Detective!” her delighted voice called out as Phil turned to walk up to the bar itself.

“Miss Carter,” he greeted, still smiling, as he turned to accept her rather exuberant hug.  Despite the fact that she must have been at least eighteen by now, she still reminded Phil of the little girl she had been.

“Oh, please,” Peggy said, rolling her eyes as she tucked her arm around Phil’s and started leading him back to her friends.  “Didn’t we work this out years ago?  It’s Peggy.”

Looking down into her at her sparkling brown eyes, Phil had to fight matching her infectious grin.  She was just as forthright as he remembered, a trait she had inherited directly from her father.  Phil had met Lord Astwell during the Great War and Phil knew he would not be standing where he was if not for the other man’s leadership and bravery.  Phil had been so scared and young the first time he’d seen war and so naïve to think he could deal with the horror of the Western Front.  He’d barely waited until he was eighteen to enlist in the Army, ready to serve King and country and had found himself in a nightmare.  Lord Astwell had saved him from that and a grim fate and Phil had happily repaid his former commanding officer by helping out a few years before when an imposter had made a claim on the Astwell fortune.

“I’m sure your father didn’t mind when you were younger,” Phil said, banishing the ghosts of his past to focus back on Peggy.  “But a beautiful young woman like the one you’ve turned into shouldn’t let just anyone address her by her first name.”

“Yes, because I _always_ do what I should,” Peggy told him impishly.

Before Phil could response to that, they arrived at the table where Peggy’s two friends sat.  Both men were smartly dressed in black tie as befitted dining at the Savoy, but that was where the similarity ended.  The first of the men was tall and broad-shouldered, with perfectly combed blond hair and the kind of honest and open face that made you think he could never have any secrets.  He was also vaguely familiar to Phil, although like the night before, he couldn’t place why.  His companion, on the other hand, was dark where he was blond and had sharp, pale blue eyes that instantly assessed Phil.  It was different to the way Barton watched him; there was no sense that the man was assessing Phil as a threat, but there was no doubting that few details escaped him.  The cut of his black tie was also cheaper than his companions, but it did little to detract from his striking looks.  A small smirk curved his mouth as Phil returned his evaluation, before he wordlessly toasted Phil with his cocktail.

“Oh, Bucky, don’t be a pain,” Peggy said from beside Phil.

The dark-haired man shrugged in response and took a sip of his drink, but his gaze didn’t leave Phil.  He couldn’t have been more than twenty and Phil had no idea what it was about himself that fascinated the other man so much.  “Phil, this is Lieutenant Steve Rogers and his best friend Sergeant James Buchannan Barnes,” Peggy introduced.  “We’ve all known each other since we were children.  You remember those two horrible boys I was always running around with, don’t you?”

“Peggy…” Rogers began awkwardly.

“Oh, relax Rogers,” Peggy interrupted.  “Phil is practically my uncle.  Aren’t you?”

“I do remember giving you lessons in history and mathematics while your hair was still in pigtails,” Phil agreed, feeling oddly touched at the way Peggy had remembered him so fondly.  “Not that you listened, of course.”

“Oh, that sounds like Peg,” Barnes smirked.  “And I do think I remember the summer you stayed.  You were that man in the suit that yelled at me when I tried to get Peggy to come outside to climb the old apple tree.”

Hiding an inward grimace at the reminder that he was more than ten years older than his company, Phil nodded.  “That was me,” he said.

“Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr…” Rogers said, rising from his chair to offer Phil his hand to shake with an earnestly polite expression.

“Phillip Coulson,” Phil introduced, shaking the offered hand.  All of a sudden, Phil was struck by the reason why Lieutenant Rogers had seemed so familiar to him.  He didn’t remember the boy as a child, but now that he was grown up he was the spitting image of a man Phil had once known very well; another Lieutenant Rogers that had been one of the unfortunate souls who had not returned home like Phil had.

“He’s a famous detective,” Peggy said brightly, but Phil found he couldn’t quite focus on the conversation.

“Are you all right, sir?” Rogers asked, concerned.

Phil gave him a tight smile.  “Forgive me, Lieutenant,” he said.  “It’s just that I knew your father.  During the War.”

Rogers’ smile turned awkward at the edges again, but he didn’t say anything else and for that Phil was grateful.  “Well,” Peggy said briskly, smiling a touch too brightly as she changed the subject.  “You will stay and have a drink with us, won’t you?”

“As long as I’m not intruding,” Phil said, trying to regain his composure.

“Of course not,” Peggy replied with a sweet smile.

“So…” Barnes said, breaking the silence after Phil had ordered his drink.  “You’re a detective are you, Mr Coulson?  No future in teaching history to errant young girls?”

Those pale blue eyes were watching him again, which Phil found curious with the way Barnes was leaning against the table in such a way that he was half leaning against his best friend.  From Rogers’ lack of reaction, Phil suspected this wasn’t an unusual occurrence.  “The history lessons were a favour to an old friend rather than a career choice,” Phil said softly.

“Ah, so you’re really here to help Scotland Yard investigate the murder, then?” Barnes said.

“Bucky,” Rogers said in a low voice.

Barnes turned to his best friend and smirked.  “Someone had to ask it,” he said.

Phil bit back a smile at the exchange.  The two young men were clearly close and Phil was glad because he knew just how much being a young boy and growing up without a father wasn’t easy.  “I find that Scotland Yard rarely needs assistance,” Phil deflected.

“If you have any questions to ask us all the same, sir, I’m sure we’d all be glad to answer them,” Rogers said.

Ignoring Barnes’ snort, Phil watched Rogers carefully, but all he read on the Lieutenant was earnestness and a quiet sense of dignity that came from choosing to do what he believed was right, even when it was painful or difficult.  For a moment, Phil was achingly reminded of Rogers’ father, who had whispered stories about his small, sickly son with the big heart in a voice full of love.  Clearing his throat, Phil offered Rogers a small smile.  “Well, the standard question to begin would be to ask you what you did after dinner last night?” he said.

“We went out for cocktails,” Peggy said.  “At the American Bar.”

“And what time did you come back?” Phil asked.

“I returned with Peggy at about midnight, Detective,” Rogers answered.  “I walked her up to her room around then, because I remember checking the clock when I got back to my room.”

“And you, Sergeant Barnes?” Phil asked.  He took a drink of the martini the bartender had discreetly placed by his elbow a little while ago and watched Barnes.  As relaxed and sarcastic as he had been before, it was noticeable how uncomfortable he’d gotten at Phil’s question and how desperately he was trying to hide it.

“Oh, I didn’t go back with them,” he said, his smile strained.  “I stayed out to do a bit more drinking and I’m not sure what time I returned, but it was definitely close to sunrise.”

It was interesting.  Barnes hadn’t lied, but he was definitely hiding something at the same time.  For a moment, Phil wondered if gambling or a girl was the reason Barnes had been out so late, because whatever the reason was, he seemed reluctant to share it with his friends as much as he didn’t want to share it with Phil.  His wary side-long glance at Rogers spoke to that.  However, judging by the knowing glance Peggy and Rogers shared Barnes wasn’t usually so reluctant to share details.  Or rather, perhaps Barnes wasn’t so reluctant to share details of his night that were less than truthful, but this time he didn’t want to lie to a detective either.

“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts, Sergeant?” Phil asked mildly, his eyes still watching Barnes carefully.

Barnes gave a tight smile.  “I’m afraid not, Detective,” he said.

Now that, Phil was sure was a lie.  He’d hesitated before he’d spoken, as if he’d thought of one person who could have vouched for him.  The only reason for Barnes not to say that was if he would get in trouble for the admission.  Phil eyed him carefully for another moment, but he didn’t look like the type to get involved in anything illegal.  A little rough around the edges he might have been, but a man like Lieutenant Rogers would not be friends with someone that unscrupulous and neither would Peggy.

“Mr Coulson, I’m sure that…” Rogers began, but Barnes cut him off with a wry smile.

“It’s all right, Steve,” he said.  “I’m fairly sure Mr Coulson isn’t out for my blood.”

Phil attempted to give the Sergeant a reassuring smile.  He was certain that Barnes was hiding something, but he was almost as certain that it had little to do with Miss Everhart’s murder.  It wouldn’t stop Phil doing a little digging, but he didn’t see any reason to tell Barnes that.  “The only thing I am concerned about is finding out who murdered Miss Everhart,” Phil said softly.

“Well, I can assure you that it was none of us,” Peggy said with a grin.

Phil smiled back and sipped his drink and from the knowing expression in Peggy’s eyes, she caught the way he didn’t actually agree with her statement.  It wasn’t that Phil thought any of them were particularly guilty, but he’d learnt hard lessons in the past about what people were capable of.  “Thank you for the drink, Miss Carter,” Phil said, smiling at the way Peggy gave him a sharp glance at his formal address, “but I believe it’s time for my dinner reservation and that means you will have to excuse me.”  He nodded his farewell to both Lieutenant Rogers and Sergeant Barnes, noting the way Barnes’ eyes followed his movements.

“Oh, Phil, why don’t you just join us for dinner?” Peggy said with a smile.  “You could quiz us some more if you like.”

“Thank you, but I have a prior engagement,” Phil replied with an answering smile.

“Come on, Peg,” Barnes said.  “You can’t think we’re the only suspects the Detective has to question.”

“Bucky,” Rogers sighed.

Phil just smiled blandly at both the Sergeant and the Lieutenant.  “Don’t be too hard on him, Lieutenant,” he said.  “The Sergeant is correct.”  With a bland smile and another nod, Phil took his leave before either of the men could get over their surprise at his words and headed straight for the dining room.

Stepping through the doors, Phil found his gaze immediately drawn to the man he was supposed to be having dinner with.  Barton’s blue eyes stared back, the man already waiting for him at their table, a glass of scotch by his right hand and a cigarette negligently held in his left.  As always, Barton wore a sense of danger as sleekly as he wore the black tie and even casually sitting in his chair, he resembled a predator; his eyes tracked everyone in the room and there was a tension in his shoulders that the casual sprawl couldn’t quite hide.  Ignoring the shiver that went down his spine, Phil nodded a greeting and headed towards the table, intent on learning what Barton had managed to find out.

 

*~*


	5. Danger for Dessert

 

“Mr Barton.”

Clint felt a smirk curl the corner of his mouth at Coulson’s mild greeting.  Like the first time Clint had seen him, Coulson wore his black tie impeccably well, but this time Clint had the advantage of a closer vantage point.  The tailored jacket emphasised Coulson’s shoulders and his waistcoat did little to hide the fact that unlike most men of his social class, there was very little about Coulson that was soft.  There was a fluidity to his movements too that spoke of an ability to fight and Clint was reminded that no matter how much Coulson used his mind like a weapon, it would not be his only one if it came down to a physical fight.  It was Coulson’s eyes, however, that caught and held Clint’s attention.  Sharp as they might be, they were also inherently kind.  They were the eyes of a man who had seen darkness and pain, but was still trying to do the right thing.  They also held a deep sort of loneliness that Clint couldn’t help but feel echo in his own chest.

“Detective Coulson,” Clint returned the greeting with his own nod as Coulson took his seat, but did not rise or offer his hand as manners dictated.

For a moment, Coulson looked amused.  “I see you got my invitation,” he said.

“Of course,” Clint said with a smirk.  “Who could resist dining with the great Detective Coulson?”

Coulson gave him a wry smile.  “A great many people, actually,” he said.  “Once the novelty wears off, most people seem to find the experience rather dull.”

Clint arched an eyebrow as he felt his smirk grow, before he stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and took a sip of his scotch.  “It’s a good thing I’m not most people then, isn’t it?”

Coulson looked like he bit back an answering smile as he turned to nod at the waiter who had silently appeared at his elbow.  Clint watched him as he approved of the wine selection and ordered the chicken with perfect French pronunciation.  Just to be difficult, Clint ordered the beef when the waiter turned to him, but Coulson didn’t look bothered by his choice not matching the wine choice.  Clint couldn’t tell if it was just Coulson’s perfect poker face or if he really wasn’t bothered by Clint’s continued attempts to unsettle him.

“So,” Coulson said, sipping his wine as he watched Clint.  “Did you crack the case in my absence?”

Clint blinked, unable to stop the way his lip twitched into an amused smile.  “Sadly, Detective, I didn’t,” he replied.  “You’re stuck with me for a while longer.”

In response, Coulson arched an eyebrow as if to imply Clint should continue.  “I’m afraid I don’t have much to report,” he admitted, letting the humour fall away.  “Miss Margaret Carter and her friends, Lieutenant Rogers and Sergeant Barnes spent the afternoon attending the theatre next door and gossiping over things straight from the social pages.  Also, for the most part, Justin Hammer appeared to enjoy spending the afternoon flirting ineptly with the hotel maids before he left for a business appointment.”  Clint shrugged and took another drink of his scotch.  “Anthony Stark and his friends didn’t return to the hotel until late afternoon either.”

Coulson hummed thoughtfully.  “I spoke to Miss Carter and her friends just before coming in to dinner,” he said.  “By their own admissions, Lieutenant Rogers escorted Miss Carter back to her room just before midnight, before returning straight to his room and Sergeant Barnes was out for most of the evening chasing other amusements, but he could offer no one with the ability to confirm that.”

“So in other words, they all had opportunity,” Clint said with a frown.  “What about Rogers?  Do you really think he returned straight to his room?”

For a moment, Coulson looked amused again.  “Yes, I think he really did.  Lieutenant Rogers is a genuinely honourable man.”  Coulson paused for a moment, a shadow passing over his expression.  “So was his father,” he added softly.

Clint carefully noted the moment of sadness on Coulson’s face and the way he had said _was_ and not _is_.  The detective was enigmatic and surprisingly hard to read and every little piece of the puzzle would help Clint figure out the other man.  With the ease at which Coulson could read Clint, Clint wouldn’t be comfortable until he could do the same.  Although, that wasn’t the only reason Clint felt compelled to figure Coulson out; as much as he didn’t want to admit it, Clint was intrigued.  Coulson was a man who presented a bland and forgettable face to the world, but that wasn’t who he really was.  He had a sharp and perceptive mind and what Clint was beginning to think was a sly sense of humour, but he kept both hidden.

“So where do we stand?” Clint asked after a moment, trying to distract himself from thoughts about Coulson and focus back on the case.

“You were correct in what you said before,” Coulson said quietly.  “Almost everyone who had dinner in the dining room last night had opportunity to murder Miss Everhart.”

Clint looked at him, trying to gauge what Coulson was thinking.  He could tell that Coulson still didn’t trust him enough to share his suspicions and theories, instead choosing to talk in facts.  Clint let that go for now because it wasn’t as if Clint was trusting Coulson in return, but he couldn’t stop the twinge of frustration that went through him.  “So almost anyone could be our murderer and thief,” he said sourly.  “There has to be a way of narrowing down the suspects.”

Coulson paused as the waiter returned with their entrees.  “You’re assuming that the murderer and the thief are the same person,” he said quietly.

Clint glanced up from his plate to watch Coulson carefully again.  “You don’t think they are,” he said, not really phrasing it as a question.

“I’m not convinced, no,” Coulson replied.  “There are too many variables for the solution to be that simple.”

Still eyeing him, Clint watched as Coulson took a sip of wine.  “Like the reason you were dining at the Savoy last night,” Clint said.

Coulson blinked, before arching an eyebrow in response.  “I have not attempted to hide my reasons for dining here last night, Mr Barton,” he said; his tone was mild, but Clint nevertheless got the impression he was amused.  “You just never asked.”

“So why _were_ you dining at the Savoy, Detective?” Clint found himself asking, which was no doubt what Coulson had intended.

Coulson’s lips quirked as if he was holding back a smile and Clint narrowed his eyes.  “I was sent an invitation to dinner in the post,” he said.  “The invitation was unsigned and the reservation was under my name.  I assumed someone wished to hire my skills in a professional capacity.”

Clint felt his own eyebrow rise in surprise.  “You think Miss Everhart either knew someone wanted to harm her or steal the diamond and invited you here to prevent it?” he asked with a frown, following Coulson’s thought to its conclusion.

For a moment, Coulson looked equally surprised by the doubt in Clint’s tone.  “Everyone I have asked has told me that Obadiah Stane had not planned to join his fiancé and business partner in London until tomorrow and that dinner last night was an impromptu celebration.  That would have given Miss Everhart a reason for not meeting me for dinner,” he said.  Pausing, Coulson looked at him and sipped his wine.  “You disagree?”

Clint frowned thoughtfully for a moment.  “It’s plausible, but it just doesn’t feel right,” he said finally.  “I don’t believe I ever met Miss Everhart, but she was a socialite and one who was used to manipulating men into doing what she wanted them to do if the rumours were true.  A woman like that… her preferred methods would be to reel you in with intrigue and flattery and I doubt she’d pick the Savoy’s dining room for the setting for it.  It doesn’t make sense to me that she’d send you an anonymous dinner invitation.”

Coulson sat back and looked as if he was seriously considering Clint’s words.  Clint felt something ease at the response.  He hadn’t been sure of Coulson even though the detective had agreed to work with Clint on the case; as straightforward as Coulson appeared, he could have used the agreement as a way to brush Clint off or feed him useless information.  Instead, Coulson seemed to be weighing Clint’s perspective as much as he did his own.  “You raise a good point,” Coulson conceded.  “Which leaves us with a problem: if it wasn’t Miss Everhart who sent the invitation, then who did?  Logically, it could have been anyone at the impromptu dinner.”

“Except Stane,” Clint pointed out.

He was quiet for a minute as the waiter returned to remove the remains of the entree and deliver the main course.  Both Clint and Coulson waited for the waiter to retreat again before Coulson motioned for Clint to continue.  “Stane was the one who organised the celebration last night and he couldn’t have invited you to dinner,” Clint said.  “He would know he couldn’t be in two places at once.”

Coulson nodded thoughtfully.  “Which leaves Miss Potts, Stark and Dr Banner as your potential dinner companions,” Clint added with a smirk.

Arching an eyebrow, Coulson watched him for a moment.  “So it would seem,” he replied dryly.

They ate their dinner in silence for a while and Clint let his eyes drift around the dining room to observe the other guests.  Stark, joined by Miss Potts and Dr Banner, was holding court at a table in the corner of the room, but even from where he was sitting Clint could tell the mood was sombre.  Miss Margaret Carter was laughing a little too loudly at her table on the other side of the room and her two companions, Rogers and Barnes, were both watching her with concern in their expressions.  Although it seemed Miss Carter was not the only one Sergeant Barnes had been watching.  Clint had already caught Barnes gazing at Coulson a few times that evening and out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Barnes look up and fix Coulson with another piercing stare.

“Is there any reason why Sergeant Barnes keeps watching you?” Clint asked, taking a sip of his wine and looking expectantly at Coulson.

Coulson, to his credit, didn’t look surprised at the question.  “I would imagine it’s because he knows that I know that he lied,” he replied.

The mild way Coulson spoke irked Clint and he narrowed his eyes.  “I don’t suppose you’d care to actually explain?” he asked archly.

“When Sergeant Barnes told me that he had not returned to the hotel until after three o’clock this morning, I asked him if anyone could give him an alibi,” Coulson said after a momentary pause.  “He lied when he said he didn’t and he knows I caught that.”

Clint nodded and considered Coulson’s answer.  There was more to Barnes’ staring than just the nerves of being caught in a lie.  Barnes’ eyes had drifted over Coulson’s shoulders and admired the fit of his jacket and waistcoat just as often as they’d watched Coulson’s face.  That was not the behaviour of a man solely concerned with whether a detective was about to call him on a lie.  There was more interest in Barnes’ gaze than that.

It was not an unfamiliar interest to Clint either.  Clint had been on the receiving end of such assessments before and had given a fair share of them; Clint was not stranger to inviting a man into his bed, even if he was more infamous for his affairs with scandalous women.  Clint also knew that England had decreed it was illegal for men to sleep with men, albeit it no longer came with the death penalty.  Not that the law was capable of stopping Clint.  He’d slept with men in countries where homosexuality or anything close was still punishable by death.

Clint turned his attention back to Coulson.  The detective was perceptive enough to have noticed Barnes’ interest just like Clint had, but he seemed to have dismissed it just as quickly, which intrigued Clint.  Initially, Clint had picked Coulson as a widower or someone whose sweetheart had left him for someone else because of the sad loneliness in the back of his eyes.  However, Clint was re-evaluating that conclusion very quickly.  Only a man familiar with recognising that kind of attention would be so quick to ignore it, particularly after being trained to uphold the law.  It didn’t matter if it was genuine or a ploy on Barnes’ part – Coulson was not as simple as he appeared to be.  Clint sat back in his chair, suddenly seeing Coulson in a completely different light.  The hint of the man beneath the carefully cultivated mask was no longer simply a mystery that intrigued Clint; instead, Clint found himself wanting to peel back the layers of defences and polite manners to reveal the sharp mind and sly sense of humour underneath.  Then Clint’s fingers itched to strip him of his tailored suit just as easily and find out what noises made amongst tangled sheets.

“Mr Barton?” Coulson asked, breaking into Clint’s increasingly lewd thoughts and sounding as if this was not the first time he had said Clint’s name.

Clint cleared his throat and refocused his attention.  “I was saying that Detective Inspector Sitwell showed me a copy of the coroner’s report,” Coulson said when he’d seen he had Clint’s attention again.  He stared at Clint with that sharp gaze for a minute, but Clint kept his face as impassive as he could until Coulson stopped searching his expression.  “The coroner confirms that Miss Everhart was killed around one o’clock in the morning,” Coulson continued.  “He believes she was stabbed by a letter opener and Detective Inspector Sitwell confirms the letter opener is missing from the desk in Miss Everhart’s suite.”

“You think the murderer took the letter opener with them,” Clint said.

Coulson nodded.  “Given the nature of the wounds and evidence of bruising, I also believe it is most likely that the murderer is a man.”

Clint digested the information for a moment, before pushing away the remains of his dinner and waving over the waiter.  “Scotch,” he ordered.  “Make it a double.”

He waited until the waiter had retreated again before looking over at Coulson.  “The coroner thinks the murderer held her down as he stabbed her,” Clint said in a low voice.

Coulson nodded even though Clint hadn’t really needed an answer.  Clint nodded his thanks to the when the waiter returned with his scotch, before taking a large swallow.  This was not the first time Clint’s life had touched death, nor could he say he’d never seen a dead body.  Yet, even after the horrors he’d seen and the nightmare he’d survived – or maybe because of them – Clint still felt a surge of anger and a sick twisting of his stomach when he came across another example of the same brutality.  For all his calm expression, Clint could see that Coulson was the same.  Deep in his eyes was an echo of the same demons, proving that Coulson had seen his own share of death.

“I don’t think the murderer went to Miss Everhart’s rooms planning to kill her.  He didn’t bring a weapon with him – he grabbed the first weapon to hand,” Coulson said, his voice detached and strangely subdued.  “But the brutality suggests that whatever the motive was, it was personal.”

“That would make Obadiah Stane the obvious suspect,” Clint said, taking another drink of scotch.

Coulson shook his head slightly, his fingers toying with the stem of his wine glass.  “Not necessarily,” he said.  “Detective Inspector Sitwell found notes and a few pieces of cheaper jewellery that imply Miss Everhart had a lover.  She was also wearing a silk nightgown when she was killed.”

Clint cursed under his breath.  “If jealousy or anger is the motive, both Stane and her lover are prime suspects,” he said, before he frowned slightly at Coulson.  “But you don’t think so.”

Coulson sent Clint an assessing look.  “Miss Everhart started fighting her killer as soon as he stepped into her bedroom,” he said and Clint remembered the signs of a struggle he’d seen when he’d broken into Miss Everhart’s rooms earlier.  “If it had been her lover, she might not have been so quick to fight.”

“Or she might have had she seen the letter opener in his hand,” Clint countered.

Sighing, Coulson ran his fingers along the stem of his wine glass again and Clint thought he should not find the movement as distracting as he did.  “What are you thinking?” Clint found himself asking softly before he could stop himself, wanting to hear the thoughts behind why Coulson’s eyes had suddenly clouded.

“I cannot help but feel, Mr Barton, that we are missing a very important part of this case,” he replied.

Clint nodded, because he was getting that feeling too.  “It’s Clint,” he said.  At Coulson’s somewhat puzzled look, Clint smirked, glad to see the demons fading from the other man’s eyes again.  “If we’re going to solve a murder together, Detective, you might as well call me by my first name.”

A small smile curved Coulson’s mouth.  “Then you may as well call me Phil in return,” he said.  “Although, it will be harder to mock.”

Clint grinned.  “I think I can work with that.”

 

*~*

Phil took a breath of cool night air as he stepped away from the bright lights of the grand doors to the Savoy Hotel.  The night held the edge of cold, but it wasn’t unpleasant and truthfully, Phil felt a little relieved to be away from the prying eyes of the Savoy’s main dining room.  He had never quite got used to his infamy as a private detective and the sensation of being watched never became comfortable.  Of course, the sharpest pair of eyes in the room had followed him outside and Phil smelt the now familiar scent of a cigarette as Clint Barton casually lit one beside him.

The other man’s presence should have been unsettling, but it wasn’t.  Not anymore.  Phil wasn’t exactly sure what had changed at dinner, but something had.  And Phil had to admit that he was glad.  For all his reputation as a scoundrel and gambler, Clint had a mind that was as sharp as his gaze and a way of reading people that Phil could not.  He’d seen through theories and made his own during their discussion and Phil couldn’t deny that his reasoning behind some of his observations had saved Phil both time and effort to come to the same conclusions.  The glimpse of the mind and intellect behind the smirk had fascinated Phil more than he’d thought possible, which might prove to be a problem in the not too distant future.  Phil knew his weaknesses and solving a mystery, particularly when it came with a captivating face like Clint’s, would be hard to resist.

“So what do we do now, Detective?” Clint asked quietly from beside him, that familiar smirk curling his lips.

“Well, I for one, am going home to sleep,” Phil replied, feeling the exhaustion he’d been pushing back creeping up on him again.

Clint raised an eyebrow in Phil’s direction, his lips quirking with amusement.  “Does that mean the tireless detective actually does get tired?” he said.

The exhaustion pulled at Phil and for once he gave up on his usual perfect manners.  “Of course I get tired,” he said.  “I’m just as human as you are.”

“You get grumpy, too,” Clint said with a chuckle of amusement, his expression delighted.  “I like it.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Phil set his fedora on his head and tried to ignore the way the expression of delight on Clint’s face had turned the focused roguish intensity into something boyish and charming.  It was actually somewhat adorable.  Clearing his throat, Phil turned his attention towards finding a taxi to take him home rather than the man beside him.  “You’d be one of the first,” he muttered in reply.

Clint smirked as he blew out a plume of smoke, falling into step beside Phil as he headed away from the hotel.  “I like the sound of that, too,” he said.

Phil narrowed his eyes a little as he glanced at the other man.  Clint had shrugged a coat over his black tie and carried his hat almost absently in one hand.  He looked as roguish as his reputation suggested, except for those blue eyes which were regarding Phil seriously.  For a moment, Phil had the impression that Clint wanted to say something, before the expression in those eyes shifted and Clint was smirking once again.  “The night is still young, Detective,” Clint said.  “Are you sure all you want to do is sleep?”

If Phil didn’t know better, he’d think Clint was deliberately flirting with him, but that was impossible.  Men like Clint Barton did not flirt with men like Phil, particularly out in the open like they were.  And especially not when they knew women like Natasha Romanoff.  There was something infectious about Clint’s teasing smirk, however, and Phil found himself smiling back.  “Not all of us have reputations for being scoundrels,” he replied.

Clint looked amused.  “You may not have the reputation, Detective,” he said.  “But that doesn’t mean you’re not as much of a scoundrel as I am.  Maybe you’re just better at hiding it.”

Phil arched an eyebrow and started to reply when a shout from the mouth of a nearby alley caught his attention.  The streets around the Savoy Hotel were still busy, particularly with the Savoy Theatre so close, but the alley was dark and shadowed.  Phil was moving towards it before he’d even thought about it, Clint right beside him.  The man who’d shouted glanced towards Phil and Clint, but his hat and the shadows obscured his face.  He shouted again, this time alerting whoever else was in the alley and Phil saw the gleam of metal as the man pulled a gun out of his coat.  Reacting on instinct, Phil moved so that the corner of the alley impeded the man’s shot, even as his fingers twitched for the gun he rarely carried anymore.  Phil heard the sound of a gunshot and the bullet hit the brick wall of the building a few steps in front of where he was.  He ducked down behind the corner of the building, grateful the gunman was such a lousy shot.

“Are you hurt?” Clint asked quietly, suddenly appearing beside Phil.

Phil snorted before he could stop himself.  “He’s not a very good shot,” he said.  “The bullet wasn’t even close.”

Clint blinked at him in surprise, but Phil turned his attention back to the alley without offering anything else.  Phil wasn’t sure what else to say anyway; he’d learnt how to judge how close bullets came to hitting him during the War and it was a lesson he was not sure he’d ever come close to forgetting.  Peering around the corner, Phil saw the first man had been joined by a second, the second man’s nose bleeding thickly from where their victim had clearly fought back.  Phil watched the man pull out a rather dirty looking handkerchief to stop the blood and as the man reached up, the cuff of his ill-fitting suit exposed the tattoo on his inner wrist.  Inwardly, Phil cursed and wished for his gun more than ever.

“What is it?” Clint asked, just as quietly as before.

“Trouble,” Phil replied grimly.

Trying to calculate a way of fighting the men without a weapon, Phil was surprised when he caught the gleam of metal out of the corner of his eye.  He turned to look at Clint, who wordlessly held out the sleek throwing knife in his hand.  “Are you actually any good with that?” Phil asked instead of taking the offered weapon.

“I never miss,” Clint told him with a smirk, but Phil could hear the steel beneath the tone that proved the words were more fact than bragging.

Phil gave him a short nod and glanced back at the two men in front of the alley.  They both appeared to be arguing about something in a language that wasn’t English and Phil used their distraction to sneak closer, very conscious of Clint’s presence on his heels.  Phil was almost close enough to do something when the man with the gun spotted him and shouted.  He pointed the gun at Phil and a second before Phil surged forward, he saw the throwing knife sink into the gunman’s shoulder and throw off his aim.

Not hesitating, Phil grabbed the hand holding the gun and shoved it up and away.  Pivoting sharply on his foot, he elbowed the gunman straight in the diaphragm before following up by wrenching the gunman’s arm and twisting the gun out of his grip.  The man cursed in a language Phil now recognised as Mandarin, still gasping for air after Phil had winded him.  The man was fast, however, and kicked the gun from Phil’s hand before Phil could do anything.  Pain exploded across Phil’s wrist as the gun went skittering into the shadows and Phil hissed out his own curse.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of a scuffle as Clint presumably dealt with the second thug, but most of Phil’s attention was fixed on the man in front of him.  The man held his left arm close to his body, Clint’s knife still protruding from his shoulder and Phil aimed for the obvious weakness.  Phil blocked the man’s punch as he caught the man’s left shoulder and pressed his fingers into the flesh around the wound.  He ignored the sticky feeling of blood underneath his fingers and the memories that came with it, as well as the man’s howl of pain.  Using the way the man twisted away from his fingers, Phil tangled his leg with the man’s in an attempt to knock him off his feet.  Phil managed to catch a glimpse of flat brown eyes before the man used his speed to send them both crashing to the ground.

Phil’s head slammed into the cobbled stones of the alley and for a moment, his vision went alarmingly dark before he could blink it and the resulting burst of pain away.  He vaguely heard the sound of metal being dropped onto cobble stones and shouts in Mandarin echoed in his ears, before he heard the sound of fleeing footsteps.  Phil lay where he was for a moment, breathing shallowly as the nausea receded, until Clint’s concerned face moved into view.  “Are you hurt, Phil?” he asked and Phil couldn’t help noticing how handsomely dishevelled Clint looked with the way a thick lock of his hair had fallen over his forehead.

“I don’t think so,” Phil replied, accepting the hand Clint offered to help him back to his feet.

Carefully, Phil retrieved his hat and the gun as Clint smirked at him, before turning and arching an enquiring eyebrow at the other man.  “And you said you weren’t a scoundrel,” Clint said with a grin.  “You fight dirty, Detective.”

“Well, the bad guys so rarely throw down a gauntlet and challenge you to a duel at dawn anymore,” Phil said dryly.

A groan of pain from deeper down the alley cut off whatever Clint had been about to say in reply.  Walking further into the shadows and away from the light and traffic of the street beyond, Phil looked for the victim the thugs had been beating up and tried to ignore the way his suspicions were growing.  The momentary flash of light from the headlights of a motorcar lit up the crumpled heap of a man.  The flash hadn’t given Phil more chance than to see the expensive quality of his coat or the blood at his temple, but the ominous sinking feeling in his stomach told Phil the man was exactly who he’d suspected he was.

“Shit, that’s…” Clint said, as another flash of headlights lit up the alley.

“Obadiah Stane,” Phil said with a sigh.  “Yes.  Come on, help me get him back to the hotel.”

 

*~*


	6. A Matter of Trust

  
 

_The Savoy Hotel, London, June 18th, 1934_

Clint watched from the edge of the small room off the Savoy’s lobby as Dr Banner cleaned and bandaged the wound on Obadiah Stane’s temple.  Something wasn’t sitting right with the scene and Phil had been tense and edgy since the fight in the alley in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline.  Clint was willing to bet a considerable amount that it had something to do with those thugs, he just didn’t know what.  He found his eyes drifting back towards the detective as a result.

Seeing Phil fight had been a kind of revelation into itself; he didn’t fight like any of the men Clint had ever met.  His movements had been sleek and fluid and without hesitation, proving he was not a man unaccustomed to violence and the way he had used dirty tricks as a first resort instead of his last showed that he was no stranger to fighting for his life.  The way Phil moved also suggested he’d been trained to fight; Clint had been slightly too young to fight in the Great War, but he had seen enough soldiers to recognise the signs of one now.  However, Clint was also willing to bet another considerable amount that a simple soldier was not all Phil Coulson had been.  That fact alone intrigued Clint more than it should and made the itch to puzzle out Phil even worse.

After the fight in the alley, Phil looked a little worse for wear compared to his usual pristine appearance and the faintly rumpled look was strangely endearing.  Nevertheless, Phil was handling Stane’s grumpy demands with calm self-possession.  “I don’t want to involve the police,” Stane was almost yelling.  “It was just a failed attempt at a mugging.  Why the hell do we have to call Scotland Yard?”

“Because, Mr Stane, you are part of an ongoing murder investigation,” Phil said levelly.

Clint watched Stane’s response carefully.  The older man’s jaw clenched for a moment, but there was no other reaction to the mention of his fiancé’s death.  If Clint hadn’t already noted that Stane was a cold and ruthless man, his lack of reaction would have clinched it.

“Can’t this wait until the morning?” Stane demanded, waving Dr Banner away without as much as a thank you.

“No, I’m afraid it can’t, Mr Stane,” a new voice said and Clint turned to see the Scotland Yard detective from earlier that day striding into the room, looking surprisingly calm for a man who had most likely been called away from dinner or sleep.  “Detective Inspector Jasper Sitwell from Scotland Yard,” he introduced, offering his hand to Stane.

Stane ignored it.  “Can we make this quick then?”

“Of course,” Sitwell said, seemingly unperturbed at Stane’s refusal to shake his hand.

Clint was beginning to regret saving the industrialist from the thugs in the alley.  Sitwell just pulled out his notebook and flipped it open as Dr Banner cleared his throat.  “I’ll just be going then,” he said softly.

“Thank you, Dr Banner,” Phil said, walking over to the doctor and offering his hand.  “My apologies again for disrupting your evening.”

Dr Banner shook Phil’s hand, a rather bemused expression on his face.  “No, it’s fine,” he said, before nodding his farewell and slipping out of the room.

In the silence that followed, Clint caught the way Sitwell’s gaze slid to him and then back to Phil questioningly.  Phil shook his head minutely and Sitwell frowned in response, before Phil raised a challenging eyebrow at the Scotland Yard detective.  Sitwell’s eyes slid back to Clint again, before he returned his focus to Stane.  The whole silent conversation had taken less than thirty seconds and spoke of a close friendship between the two men.  Clint also realised with a jolt of surprise that Phil had used that friendship to vouch for Clint’s presence and that Sitwell had accepted it, because neither man had asked him to leave the room.

“Can we get on with this?” Stane snapped irritably.

“My apologies, Mr Stane,” Phil said smoothly, before Sitwell started with the questions.

“I believe, Mr Stane, that you left the Savoy Hotel at around half past ten o’clock yesterday evening?” Sitwell asked.  “Is this correct?”

“It was about then, yes,” Stane replied.  “I had business to attend to.”

“Can you tell me precisely where you went?” Sitwell said.

“To my offices,” Stane said flatly, the expression in his eyes irritated.  “My secretary can confirm this.  I got there around eleven o’clock.”

Sitwell nodded and beside him, Phil was silent but watchful.  “And how long did you stay at your offices, Mr Stane?” Sitwell asked.

Stane let out an irritated sigh.  “All night,” he said.  “My secretary can tell you that too.  I only left in time to catch the six o’clock ferry to Paris this morning.”

Sitwell nodded politely, writing the details down in his notebook.  “At what time did you return to London, Mr Stane?” he asked.

“I caught the last ferry back,” Stane answered.  “I arrived just after ten o’clock.”

“At which point you were mugged on the way to the Savoy Hotel?” Sitwell said mildly.

Stane scowled.  “Yes,” he snapped.

“Do you think there is any reason to suspect it was more than a mugging?” Phil said, his eyes narrowed slightly and staring at Stane intently.  Clint felt himself tense, certain that the answer to that question was important somehow.

Stane scoffed.  “If you’re asking, Detective,” he said, sneering Phil’s title enough to tell the room he didn’t really respect it, “if I have enemies, then the answer is yes.  Do I think that was more than a simple mugging?  No I do not.”  He paused long enough to offer Sitwell a very insincere smile.  “Now if that’s all, Detective Inspector, I would like to get some sleep.”

Sitwell smiled politely back.  “Of course, Mr Stane,” he said and Stane took the opportunity to stalk out of the room.

There was another moment of silence, before Sitwell broke it.  “So?” he asked.

“He’s hiding something,” Clint said.

Sitwell gave a put upon sigh and glared at Phil, who nodded in agreement with Clint.  “Of course he’s hiding something,” Sitwell muttered.  “Do you know what it is?”

“Not yet,” Phil said with the hint of a smile.  “But I assure you I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

“Uh huh,” Sitwell said, not sounding convinced.

“Whatever it is, it definitely has something to do with the thugs that attacked him just now,” Clint added.

“And how would you know that?” Sitwell asked suspiciously.

Clint smirked.  “Didn’t Coulson tell you on the telephone?” he said.  “I was there.”

Sitwell looked between Clint and Phil for a moment, seeming to notice the way Clint couldn’t quite keep his eyes off the detective.  Clint wasn’t quite sure what Sitwell made of it, but he thankfully didn’t say anything out loud.  Instead, he just sighed again.  “I’ll check his alibi with the secretary in the morning,” he said.

“Thank you, Jasper,” Phil said softly.

Sitwell rolled his eyes.  “Oh, don’t get all grateful on me now, Coulson,” he muttered.  Then his eyes narrowed warningly on Phil.  “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

“Of course,” Phil agreed, his expression betraying nothing.  “Good night, Mr Barton.”

“Good night, Detective,” Clint replied dryly, knowing a dismissal when he heard it.  “Detective Inspector.”

Clint watched the two men leave and absolutely refused to feel disappointed when Phil didn’t look back.

 

 

*~*

Phil patiently waited for his old friend to break the silence between them, knowing that Sitwell wanted to say something.  He had a feeling he knew what it was already, but it always good to let Sitwell say these things in his own time.  “Come on, Coulson, I’ll take you back to your apartment,” Sitwell said, nodding towards the police car he’d driven over to the hotel.

Smiling his thanks, Phil followed Sitwell to the motorcar.  Whatever Sitwell wanted to say might have been more serious than Phil thought if he wanted to privacy of the car before he said anything.  Ignoring the sudden churning in his stomach, Phil took off his hat and slid into the passenger seat.  Sitwell slid into the driver’s seat a moment later and started the engine.  “Just say it, Jasper,” Phil said quietly.

“Okay,” Sitwell said.  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Coulson?  Involving someone like Barton in the case?”

Phil debated just how much to tell Sitwell.  He didn’t want to lie to his old friend, but he wasn’t sure Sitwell would be happy if he knew the whole truth either.  What he suspected already had him worried and strictly speaking, some of Phil’s recent thoughts were actually illegal.  From beside him, Sitwell snorted.  “You know, Phil, I know more than you think I do,” he said quietly.  “And I wasn’t going to say anything about it, probably ever.  I’m just worried about you.”

“Why?” Phil asked, knowing that despite being friends for so long, Sitwell only used his first name when he was very serious about something.

“Because I don’t think you’re being completely logical about this,” Sitwell replied.

Phil raised an eyebrow and gave a smile he didn’t really feel.  “When have you known me to be anything other than logical?” he said.

“You like him,” Sitwell countered, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.  “That changes things with you.”

Feeling something inside his chest freeze, Phil pasted on his most deadpan expression.  “I’m not sure that…” he began.

“You do,” Sitwell cut him off.  “And I’m really not asking about this, Phil, I swear.”  The look Sitwell risked shooting him was far too knowing for Phil to be comfortable.  “But you sympathise with Barton enough to share details of the case with him that you probably shouldn’t.  And I’m not saying you shouldn’t trust him, I just think you should be careful.”

“He has an alibi for the time of the murder,” Phil felt compelled to point out, not sure he could tell Sitwell the real reason he trusted Clint so much because he wasn’t sure he could put the actual reason into words.

“He does,” Sitwell agreed levelly.

Phil sighed.  Knowing his friend as well as he did, he could read between the lines.  “But you think he had something to do with the theft of the diamond.”

“Not exactly,” Sitwell said.  “I just can’t rule out either Barton or Romanoff’s involvement.  And I don’t think you should either.”

Taking a deep breath, Phil tried to use the logic he was infamous for to see things from Sitwell’s point of view.  “You’re worried I can’t be objective about the case,” he said finally.

“Look, Coulson, I’ve only ever seen you lose your objectivity once,” Sitwell said and Phil had to bite back a wince at the reminder of the case that had effectively lost him his job with Scotland Yard.  “I just don’t want to see you go through that again.”

They sat in silence for a little while until Sitwell pulled the motorcar up in front of Phil’s apartment building.  “Thank you, Jasper,” Phil said after a moment.  “I understand what you’re trying to say and I will be careful.”

Sitwell gave him a small smile.  “That’s all I’m asking, Phil,” he replied.

Phil nodded.  He just hoped he could keep his words from becoming a lie.

 

 

*~*

Clint felt his cheekbone throb dully as he headed into the Savoy’s bar in search of a drink.  One of the thugs from the alley had caught him with a lucky punch, but hopefully Clint had enough of Natasha’s miracle salve left over from his last fight that it wouldn’t bruise or swell too badly.  Bruises were so awkward to explain during dinner conversation.  Clint was resolutely trying not to think of other parts of the alley fight either, particularly since Phil had left without looking back.  Dwelling on how well Phil had fought or what other skills he might be hiding was doing little for Clint’s peace of mind.

Expecting the bar to be deserted at this time of night, Clint was surprised to find the slumped figure of Tony Stark leaning against the bar, still dressed in his black tie, although his bowtie was hanging loose around his neck.  The millionaire looked thoroughly drunk, but there was something almost overwhelmingly sad about him too.  Curious, Clint walked up to the bar and took a seat beside him, placing his hat on the bar between them in an effort to subtly gain Stark’s attention.

“Vodka, no ice,” he told the bartender when he walked over to get Clint’s order, even though a voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Natasha warned him it wouldn’t be the good stuff; of course, according to Natasha, you could only find the good stuff in Russia.

“Barton, right?” Stark said, blinking blearily at Clint as he gestured drunkenly with his half full tumbler of scotch.  The ice clinked against the glass as Stark gave Clint a leering grin.  “The scoundrel.”

“That’s me,” Clint agreed, nodding his thanks to the bartender when the man placed Clint’s drink in front of him.

Stark gave him a sort of squinty-eyed look.  “Shouldn’t you be out somewhere causing trouble?” he said.

Clint smirked.  “Oh, I just got back from causing trouble,” he replied, taking a drink of his vodka.  He eyed Stark just as carefully as Stark had been eyeing him.  “I could say the same thing about you, you know,” he added.

Stark scowled.  “I’m not allowed to get into trouble,” he said, knocking back the rest of his scotch.  “I had to sneak out of my own room just to get a damn drink.”

Feeling his eyebrows rise at Stark’s words, Clint nodded for the bartender to get Stark another drink.  It was probably underhanded to feed an already drunk man more alcohol, but Clint had a feeling that with a little more prodding Stark might spill a secret or two and that could be useful for the case.  It was either that or Clint had been spending far too much time around Natasha.

“Thanks,” Stark muttered, curling his hand around his new drink.

Clint shrugged.  “You looked like you could do with it,” he said.

Stark snorted in reply.  “You have _no_ idea,” he said.  “Everyone and his dog thinks I’m going to drink myself to death because I’m still in love with Christine.”  He paused long enough to snort again and take a healthy slug of his scotch.  “They all seem to forget that I stopped fucking Christine a year ago when I realised she was only after my money,” he continued.  “And that she started fucking Justin Hammer as soon as she was done with me.”

The millionaire gave a short, bitter chuckle at the way Clint’s eyebrows rose at Stark’s words.  “Didn’t expect that, did you?” Stark said, gesturing with his drink again.  “Although Christine dropped Hammer pretty fast after the rumours of his company running into financial difficulties hit, so I guess that’s a kind of poetic justice, I suppose.”

Clint filed that piece of information away in the back of his mind.  If Stark wasn’t Miss Everhart’s mysterious lover, and it was looking likely that he wasn’t, Justin Hammer might be.  “I don’t know why I’m telling the man sleeping with Natasha Romanoff all this,” he heard Stark mutter, breaking into his thoughts.

“I’m not, you know,” Clint said.

“What?” Stark asked, blinking blearily at Clint again.

“I’m not actually sleeping with Natasha Romanoff,” he said; and he wasn’t, at least not in anything other than the completely platonic sense.  Clint wasn’t sure what exactly made him confess the truth to the millionaire, aside from the strange feeling of kinship he felt with the other man.  “Rumour doesn’t always get things right,” he added.

Stark snorted again.  “You’re telling me,” he said, before he raised his glass in Clint’s direction.  “To rumour,” he toasted.  “And the insane things the gossips say we do.”

Clint smirked as he touched his glass with Stark’s.  “To rumour,” he agreed.

 

 

*~*


	7. The Riddle of the Diamond

 

_Apartment 401, Regent’s Court, London, June 19th, 1934_

Phil was just finishing his morning cup of tea when he heard someone opening the front door to his apartment.  It wasn’t a strange occurrence for people to just walk in since Phil used part of his apartment as his offices to meet clients; however, since his secretary had left about a month ago to get married and Phil had yet to find a replacement, there was no one to greet whoever it was.  Phil slipped on his suit jacket and went out to meet whoever had entered.  He had to smile when he found Sitwell standing in his small client sitting room.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector,” Phil said.  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I thought you might want to know that Stane’s secretary confirmed his alibi for the time of Miss Everhart’s murder,” Sitwell said, getting straight to the point of his visit with a grim smile.

Nodding, Phil offered him a seat.  “Shall I put on a pot of coffee?” he asked, taking in Sitwell’s somewhat haggard appearance.

Sitwell let out a grateful sigh as he sank into one of Phil’s leather chairs.  “That would be wonderful,” he replied.

Fighting a smile, Phil went back to the kitchen and quickly brewed a pot of coffee.  He added two cups to the tray and had to bite back a smile again when he returned to find Sitwell slumped down in his chair, his eyes closed and his fedora carefully balanced on his knee.  “Rough morning?” Phil said as he set down the tray he carried on the small coffee table.

Sitwell muttered something under his breath that Phil was pretty sure was a curse.  “Just dealing with uncooperative rich bastards,” he said, accepting the cup of coffee Phil offered, before Phil took his own seat in the other leather chair.  “I can’t stay long, either.  I’m due to question Sir John Stern’s staff again in just over an hour.”

Phil felt his eyebrows rise a little at that.  “I thought you’d already established Sir John’s alibi?” he said.

“So did I,” Sitwell replied.  “But when I went over all the statements, I realised that while all his staff swear Sir John was home, none of them actually saw him between when he got home at eleven o’clock and breakfast the next morning.”

“Do you think that’s significant?” Phil asked.

Sitwell sighed.  “No,” he said.  “Probably not.”

Phil sent him a wry, knowing smile.  “The higher ups are already demanding answers to the case, aren’t they?”

“Of course,” Sitwell snorted.  He finished the last of his coffee and checked his watch.  “Thank you for the coffee, but before I go, I thought you might want to know the details Stane’s secretary confirmed.  He arrived at the London offices of Stark Industries just before eleven o’clock and locked himself in his office.  His secretary had been called in at half past ten and between then and midnight, she made him three cups of tea.  Then he apparently took a very important telephone call until two o’clock in the morning, at which point he sent his secretary home again.”

Phil puzzled over that for a moment.  “Three cups of tea almost doesn’t seem to be worth calling in a secretary for, does it?” he said.

“No, not unless Stane wanted to have someone to confirm his alibi,” Sitwell agreed.  “Also, we confirmed that he was on the six o’clock ferry to France.”

“Have you contacted the telephone exchange to confirm the time of the telephone call?” Phil asked.

Sitwell shook his head.  “No, I was going to do that this afternoon.”

Phil nodded and rose to his feet when Sitwell did.  “Thank you,” he said as he walked with Sitwell to the door.

Shrugging, Sitwell put on his head.  “You’ve always been better at putting cases like this together, Coulson,” he said.  “I just want to catch the monster that did it.”

 

*~*

_The Savoy Hotel, London, June 19th, 1934_

“Well, someone is in a cheerful mood this morning,” Natasha said.

Clint looked up at his best friend’s greeting and arched a questioning eyebrow.  Natasha merely smiled in reply with what Clint was convinced was feigned innocence.  As always, she was dressed elegantly in a white silk blouse and loose black trousers, with her hair stylishly pinned back from her face.  Clint wore what he usually wore to breakfast, which meant he’d left his suit jacket back in his suite and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.  As always, he felt more than a little scruffy in comparison to Natasha, which wasn’t a bad description when it came to their relationship in general.

Stepping into her suite and shutting the door behind him, Clint followed her elusive scent down the corridor into the sitting room.  “What exactly gave you the idea that I’m cheerful?” Clint asked.

Natasha looked up from where she was elegantly sitting on a chair and her hands paused in mid-movement as they reached for the silver teapot that held their usual morning coffee.  “Seriously?” she said flatly.

Clint let out a breath, sprawling across the chair opposite her and scowled.  Natasha regarded him for a moment with her own arched eyebrow, before she resumed pouring them both a cup of coffee each.  “You were smiling,” she pointed out.

“It’s hardly the first time I’ve smiled, Tash,” Clint said dryly, taking the cup she offered him.

“I know,” Natasha agreed, her green eyes glittering with mischievous amusement.  “It’s just that usually I’m the cause of them.”

Clint blinked.  “What are you talking about, Tash?”

Natasha let out a bright, delighted laugh that never failed to warm Clint’s heart, even when she was laughing at him like she was now.  “I’m talking about the fact that detective work suits you, Clint,” she said, her eyes still dancing as she took a delicate sip of her coffee.  “Or maybe it’s just the detective?”

Clint’s felt himself scowling again and tried to cover his expression by taking a drink of his own coffee.  “Oh, Clint,” Natasha said, setting her coffee gently down on her saucer and her eyes softening the way they only did around him.  “I just meant that you look happier than I’ve seen you look in a long time.”

Blinking, Clint wasn’t sure what to say to that.  If it was anyone else, Clint would paste on a smirk and make a joke, but this was Natasha.  She was his best friend and knew him better than anyone else.  Taking a deep breath, Clint let it out slowly and looked into Natasha’s concerned eyes.  “Jesus, Tash, how did I let him get under my skin so fast?” he said softly.

Natasha gave him a wistful smile.  “I think it’s because there are just some people we don’t have defences against,” she said.

Clint was quiet for a moment as Natasha’s words sank into his mind.  “That,” he said finally, “is a terrifying thought.”

When Natasha laughed again, Clint found himself smiling back before he flashed her a wink.  “So,” she said, her eyes bright as she picked up her cup of coffee again and sinking back in her chair.  “What scandals have you uncovered?”

Clint snorted, his mind drifting over what he and Phil _had_ discovered.  “I’d hardly call them scandals,” he said, “but our fellow dinner guests are definitely all keeping secrets.”  Clint paused for a moment, his finger sliding around the rim of his coffee cup.  “So is our detective,” he added softly.

“That I don’t doubt,” Natasha replied.  “Phil Coulson does not strike me as a man who shares parts of himself easily.”

“No,” Clint agreed, thinking about the way Phil had trusted him with the case and the way they had fought together so easily in the alley.  “He doesn’t.”

“Do you have any theories on who stole the diamond yet?” Natasha asked and if Clint hadn’t known her for years, he never would have heard the faint tremor in her voice.

Looking up at his best friend and the woman he considered to be his sister, Clint realised that after dealing with the coroner’s report, their theories on the murderer and Obadiah Stane’s fight with the thugs, neither he nor Phil had thought very hard about who could have stolen the Blue Star Diamond.  The thought surprised Clint because that was supposed to have been his entire reason for getting involved in the case in the first place.  Instead, he’d found himself wrapped up in the puzzle that was Phil Coulson and the murderer and he’d neglected his original purpose.

“Clint?”

He blinked out of his thoughts to find Natasha perched gracefully on the arm of his chair, looking down at him with an expression of soft amusement.  She combed her fingers through his hair, her blood-red fingernails scratching gently at his scalp.  “It’s all right if you don’t have any theories, you know,” she said.  “Playing detective on this case has been good for you and maybe this is the purpose you’ve been looking for.”  Tangling her fingers in his hair, she tilted his head up so she could look him straight in the eye.  “Besides, I already know you are going to find out who really stole the diamond and who killed Miss Everhart,” she added.  “I have faith in you, Clint.  I have always and _will_ always have faith in you.”

She stood with a final scratch, clearly intent on returning to her own chair, but Clint stopped her by gently grabbing her wrist.  “Tash,” he said, his voice little more than a rough whisper, before he pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand.  “I love you.”

Natasha slid her hand up to cradle his cheek for a second.  “I know,” she whispered back, before she tapped his cheek and moved back to pick up her cup of coffee and slide back into her seat.  “Now,” she said as she looked at him expectantly.  “Tell me what you _do_ know about the case.”

 

*~*

_Apartment 401, Regent’s Court, London, June 19th, 1934_

Phil sighed.  Sitwell’s words had stayed with him a long time after Sitwell left.  No matter the faith Sitwell had in his skills, Phil still felt as if there was a large piece of this case that he was missing.  The truth of the matter was that there were just too many suspects with the opportunity to do harm to Miss Everhart and not enough clues to find the motive behind her death.  Breathing out a sigh, Phil had retreated to his office and pulled out a blank sheet of paper, but the more he’d thought about it, the more convinced he had been that the only person he could say with some certainty _couldn’t_ have murdered Miss Everhart was Clint.  Everyone else could potentially have had an opportunity.

Putting down the pen, Phil settled back in his chair.  Perhaps it was time he looked at this case from another perspective.  All of his efforts had so far been spent trying to find out who had the motive and opportunity to kill Miss Everhart, yet murder had not been the only crime enacted that evening.  The Blue Star Diamond had also been stolen.  There was still a small chance that the murderer had also been the thief, but Phil didn’t think so.  The diamond was infamous and thanks to Miss Everhart’s appearances across the society pages over the last few weeks, there were very few members of London society who wouldn’t know what the diamond looked like.  The faint blue colouring of the stone was as distinctive as its size and Phil doubted it would be easy to sell either.

Which led to the question: why would someone want to steal it?

If it wasn’t for the money, the motive could be simply to own it.  Phil could believe that Natasha Romanoff could steal a diamond simply for the pleasure of having it, but Miss Romanoff was also a smart and observant woman and he didn’t think it would be possible for her to steal a diamond between midnight and one o’clock in the morning and not notice whoever else had been in Miss Everhart’s suite, because there was no doubt that someone had been.  It was also highly unlikely that Miss Romanoff would not notice the signs of disturbance or the scent of blood if she’d arrived to steal the diamond after the murder had been committed, but Phil doubted that she would be so callous as to simply ignore it.

Stane might have been callous enough to steal a diamond even after realising his fiancé had been murdered in her bedroom, but he would also have other much easier opportunities to steal the diamond.  The obvious suspect, of course, would be Miss Everhart’s lover, but Phil had yet to work out his identity.  Sergeant Barnes was obviously protecting someone who could provide his alibi, implying he had a secret lover, but Phil doubted it had been Miss Everhart.  Sergeant Barnes had nothing to gain by keeping the identity a secret after Miss Everhart’s death if it had been her and Phil also couldn’t see the Sergeant being Miss Everhart’s type.  If rumour was correct, her type was a man with money; a man such as Tony Stark, who could have perhaps rekindled the affair between himself and Miss Everhart.  Not that Phil had any proof of anything.

Phil sighed in frustration, still feeling like he was missing an obvious clue.

The sound of the door to his apartment opening had Phil rising to his feet and shaking off his circling thoughts.  He took a moment to straighten his jacket and smooth down his tie and waistcoat, before he walked out into the small sitting room to greet his new guest.  It took all his practice of hiding his emotions behind a deadpan expression not to show his surprise at the fact that his guest was none other than Miss Natasha Romanoff.

“So, this is what a private detective’s office looks like,” she said by way of greeting, her voice a throaty purr as her intelligent green gaze moved around the room.

There was no doubt that Miss Romanoff cut a stylish and stunning figure in the middle of Phil’s sitting room, even without the teasing smile that hovered at the corner of her lips.  The high-collared coat she wore was unbuttoned, revealing loose black pants and a white silk blouse that was belted at her waist and did little to hide her curves.  The coat appeared to be made of a thick black silk material covered in patterns made from silver thread that reminded Phil of the Orient.  Her hair was pinned up and mostly hidden underneath the black hat she wore angled across her face.

“Miss Romanoff,” Phil greeted with a polite smile.

Before he could ask why Miss Romanoff had decided to visit him that morning, she sat down gracefully on the sofa and began sliding off her gloves.  “I know this is terribly rude, but I don’t suppose I could get a cup of tea, could I?” she asked, her eyes holding a trace of amusement as they looked up at him.

“Of course,” Phil conceded, retreating to the kitchen.

He prepared the tea by habit as his mind wandered to the reasons why Miss Romanoff was there.  From the way she’d looked up at Phil through her eyelashes and the teasing smile on her face, Phil guessed that whatever her reasons or the information she was seeking, she was going to attempt to use the hint of seduction to get what she wanted.  Hidden from her eyes in the kitchen, Phil smiled at the thought.  It was almost a shame that her attempts were doomed from the start; Phil had no doubt that Miss Romanoff was very good at seducing men.

Miss Romanoff looked to be exactly where he’d left her when Phil returned to the sitting room, but he had to fight the urge to run his gaze over the room all the same.  Another thing Phil didn’t doubt was the fact that Miss Romanoff would use any opportunity she had to snoop around his things.  He wasn’t entirely sure what his taste in books would tell her, but there was very little else for her to find out in the sitting room.  Phil had attempted to keep it relatively impersonal for just that purpose.  Placing the tray down on the coffee table, Phil took a seat in one of the leather chairs before he reached out to pour the tea.  “Milk or sugar, Miss Romanoff?” he asked politely.

“No, thank you,” she said, before accepting the cup he held out to her.  “And correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn’t a famous detective have a secretary around to make the tea?”

“I’m afraid my former secretary left because she fell prey to that affliction that so many young people suffer from,” Phil answered and tried to keep all of his humour from his expression.  “I haven’t been able to find anyone of her calibre as a replacement.”

Miss Romanoff looked intrigued.  “Exactly what affliction did she suffer from?” she asked.

Phil allowed himself a smile.  “She fell in love, Miss Romanoff, and wished to get married.”

Shifting back a little, Miss Romanoff arched an eyebrow at him, her expression clearly one of disagreement; however, it was the dark flash of pain in her eyes that fascinated Phil the most.  “Love is for children,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, picking up his own cup of tea.  “But aren’t we all supposed to still be children at heart?”

The smile Miss Romanoff gave him in response couldn’t mask the tension in her expression.  Phil gave her a moment to banish whatever demons his words had invoked; Phil was no stranger to demons and he didn’t really want to be the reason why Miss Romanoff had to be reminded of hers.  He was intrigued though by the way she hadn’t tried too hard to mask the tension, because a woman like Miss Romanoff would be used to hiding her thoughts and feelings from a society that took such delight in applauding her and gossiping about her in equal amounts.  “So what brings you to my humble offices, Miss Romanoff?” he said.

“I came to enquire about the case,” she said, her expression turning faintly coy as she set down her tea cup.  “To see if you had made any progress on trying to catch the murderer.”

Phil placed his own coffee cup back on its saucer.  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details of the case with you, Miss Romanoff…” he said.

“Because I’m still a suspect?” Miss Romanoff interrupted and Phil was surprised to see her hands were shaking in her lap.

Convinced that most of her reaction was feigned, Phil nevertheless rose to his feet.  He wasn’t sure if he had intended to fetch her a glass of brandy or some other form of comfort, but either way Phil hated seeing a woman in distress and exaggerated as her reaction might have been, underneath it all Natasha Romanoff was genuinely scared.  She rose to her feet a second after he did and crossed the space between them, resting her hands on his forearm.  Her eyes, when she looked up at him, contained a hint of tears and an echo of her real fear.  “Please?” she said softly.  “Just enough to reassure me?  I’d be very grateful if you could.”

Miss Romanoff’s voice had dropped back down to a throaty purr as she said the word grateful and the way she bit her lower lip somehow managed to be both innocent and seductive.  Phil was more than a little impressed and began to get an idea of how parts of her reputation had started.  “If it will help, Miss Romanoff, I will attempt to share what little I can,” he conceded after a moment.  “But I feel I should also point out that if you’re hoping to get more details out of me than that, you may be doomed to failure.  I am not a man who is easily seduced, even by a woman as beautiful as you.”

Miss Romanoff gave a soft, smoky chuckle as honest respect flashed through her eyes.  “Am I that obvious?” she asked with a small, amused smile.

Phil allowed his gaze to flicker over her in assessment.  “Only when you want to be,” he replied.

Nodding, Miss Romanoff dropped her hands from his arm.  “I find most men either prefer or need the obvious,” she said, returning to her seat on the sofa.

Now that she had dropped her guise of seduction, her movements had become more sparse and efficient, but no less graceful.  Phil was both curious and grateful for the glimpse of the woman behind the mask and mysterious smiles.  When she looked back at him, he could see the clear expectation in her expression that he join her on the sofa.  “I’m afraid I’m not most men,” he said, taking a seat on the other end of the sofa.

“I’m beginning to see that,” she replied as she carefully took off her hat and settled back.  Reaching for her tea cup, she regarded him over the rim for a moment.  “So what do you know about the Blue Star Diamond?”

Phil raised an eyebrow at her.  “I thought you were worried about the murderer?” he said dryly.

The smile Miss Romanoff gave him was small, but honest.  “That’s what knives hidden in garters are for, Detective,” she said.

Phil was helpless not to smile back at the mischief in her eyes.  “Yet another reason why I shouldn’t underestimate you, Miss Romanoff,” he replied.

There was a faint trace of amusement on Miss Romanoff’s face before her expression sobered.  “I understand that I’m still a suspect, Mr Coulson,” she said.  “It’s just that I know a bit about the history of the Blue Star Diamond and I thought it might be relevant to the case.”

Nodding, Phil watched her carefully.  “For the record, I don’t believe you are a suspect,” he found himself admitting.  “I have nothing that would prove your innocence other than a gut feeling, but I do not believe you are guilty of either the theft or the murder, Miss Romanoff.”

For a moment, Miss Romanoff looked speechless.  “Thank you,” she whispered finally.

Phil gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.  “What exactly is it about the history of the Blue Star Diamond that you think I should know?” he asked thoughtfully.

Miss Romanoff took a sip of her tea.  “To begin with, the diamond was discovered in India,” she said.  “Little else is officially known about it, but the rumours surrounding the diamond, however, are very interesting.”

“Rumours such as what exactly?” Phil said, intrigued.

“Such as that the Blue Star Diamond is actually one of a pair of blue diamonds that were the eyes of an idol of Vishnu found in the innermost sanctuary temple at Sriangam,” she told him.  “And that they were stolen in the 1700s by a French deserter.”

Phil blinked, realising that if the rumours were true, the diamond’s origin would give someone the motive to steal it.  “Do you think the diamond’s history is why it was stolen?” he asked, voicing his thoughts aloud.

“Yes,” Miss Romanoff said.  “Clint said you found other jewellery among Miss Everhart’s belongings.  Cheaper quality or not, I can’t see a jewel thief leaving them behind and only taking a distinctive diamond they possibly can’t sell, unless the diamond was the target in the first place.”

“Thank you, Miss Romanoff,” Phil said, trying to ignore the fact that Clint had clearly not been so hesitant in sharing the details of the case with her, no matter how interesting her insights.  “You raise a very good point.”

Miss Romanoff smiled.  “It’s Natasha,” she corrected.  “Friends call me Natasha.”

Phil took the tentative offer as the privilege it was.  “Thank you, Natasha,” he said quietly.

Natasha set down her tea cup and carefully placed her hat back on her head.  “I should probably leave you to your detective work now,” she said, scooping up her purse and gloves as she rose to her feet.

Phil rose as well and moved to walk with her to the door, when Natasha paused and turned back to face him.  “Clint was right,” she said.  “You’re a good man, Phillip Coulson.”

“It’s Phil,” Phil said, holding out his hand, “to friends.”

Natasha took the offered hand and Phil shook it.  “Thank you, Detective,” she said, before her lips quirked into the hint of a teasing smile.  “Phil.”

“Have a pleasant afternoon, Natasha,” he replied.

“Oh, I intend to,” she said, before she slipped out of the door with a playful wave.

 

*~*


	8. The Case Takes a Turn

 

_The Savoy Hotel, London, June 19th, 1934_

“Detective, we have got to stop meeting like this,” Clint said, leaning casually against the Savoy’s front desk to the side of the large foyer.

Phil ignored him for a moment and Clint took the opportunity to run his eyes appreciatively over the detective’s frame.  He wore a dark blue suit this time, matched with a dark red tie and Clint had to admit, Phil looked particularly good in it.  Somehow, the dark blue fabric seemed to make his shoulders even broader, but that could also be because Clint had finally allowed himself to stare in admiration alone, rather than assessing the other man as a threat.  Clint muttered a quick inward curse that the suit jacket prevented him from appreciating anything lower that Phil’s waist as the detective thanked the desk clerk and accepted a large envelope.

“Mr Barton,” Phil greeted finally, turning to face him.  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I was about to telephone you, actually,” Clint said.  “I think I’ve discovered something.”

“I have as well,” Phil said, before the detective gestured they move further away from the hotel’s front desk.

Since Clint knew the detective would deem it too early to drink at the bar and Clint didn’t really want to have tea, he motioned towards the sofas and chairs hidden on the other side of the foyer.  Phil looked mildly surprised, but followed him all the same.  “So what have you found out?” Phil asked him when they were far enough away from the desk not to be overheard.

“I ran into Stark last night at the bar after you left,” Clint said, getting straight to the point and noting with curiosity the faint look of apology that flickered over Phil’s face.  “From what he said, I don’t think Stark was Miss Everhart’s lover.  But he did have some interesting things to say.”

“Oh?” Phil asked him mildly, arching an eyebrow.

Clint smirked.  “Apparently, Stark is not the only ex-lover of Miss Everhart staying at the hotel,” he said.  “Stark said that before she got engaged to Stane, she was dating Justin Hammer.  And that she jilted him as soon as she heard that Hammer’s company was having money problems.”

“That _is_ interesting,” Phil said.

“That’s not all, either,” Clint continued, taking a seat in one of two chairs hidden from view by most of the foyer.  “Stark also said that he got up a little after midnight on the night of the murder, but when he looked in Dr Banner’s room for company, the good doctor wasn’t there.  And something about that both scared and worried him.”

Phil frowned thoughtfully, settling into his own chair opposite Clint.  “Do you think that Stark thinks that Banner is guilty?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Clint admitted.  “But I did some looking into it…”

“By which you mean you asked Natasha,” Phil interrupted with a hint of his own smirk on his face and Clint wondered exactly when the detective had had the chance to get familiar enough with Natasha to use her first name – and when exactly Natasha had let him.

“Okay, so I asked Natasha,” Clint conceded.  “But the good doctor is rumoured to have a very nasty temper and that’s gotten him into trouble in the past.  It’s even supposed to be the reason behind why he went to India for the last few years.”

“India?” Phil echoed, suddenly looking very interested, before he hummed thoughtfully.

Clint wasn’t sure of the significance, but he was pretty sure Phil would tell him eventually.  “And you?” he asked, leaning back in his chair to watch Phil carefully.  “What’s in your mysterious envelope?”

“The envelope was something Detective Inspector Sitwell left for me,” Phil said.  “He questioned Obadiah Stane’s secretary and she confirmed that he arrived at the Stark Industries offices just before eleven o’clock.  Stane was supposed to have made an important telephone call from midnight until he sent her home again at around two o’clock.”

“But?” Clint said and when Phil blinked at him, Clint rolled his eyes and gestured for Phil to continue; the ‘but’ on the end of the statement was obvious.

Phil smirked.  “But Sitwell contacted the telephone exchange and sent a copy of the records to me,” he said, indicating the envelope.  “And the only telephone call placed from Stane’s office while he was there occurred just after midnight and only lasted for ten minutes, giving him plenty of opportunity to return to the Savoy and kill his fiancé.”

Clint let out a rather frustration sigh.  “So essentially what you’re saying, Detective, is that neither of us are any closer to proving who the murderer is or who stole the Blue Star Diamond?” he said.

The smile Phil gave him was rueful.  “I wouldn’t exactly say we aren’t _any_ closer,” he replied, “but no.  We seem to have far too many suspects and far too many motives.”

He smile seemed to grow a little when Clint huffed in frustration again.  “I never claimed being a detective was easy, you know,” Phil told him softly.

Clint opened his mouth to reply when he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye.  Turning his head, he watched Lieutenant Steve Rogers walk over, his expression a little uncertain.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Phil tense.  “Lieutenant Rogers,” Phil greeted, rising to his feet politely.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Detective Coulson,” Rogers replied, his eyes cutting to where Clint was still sitting and Clint watched his shift his weight nervously.

“There’s no need to worry, Lieutenant,” Clint drawled, after he’d finished casually lighting a cigarette.  “The detective and I were just discussing the case.”

Rogers nodded, almost to himself.  “I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time, Detective?” he asked Phil.

“Of course,” Phil said, gesturing for Rogers to join them on the chairs.

Rogers sat awkwardly on the sofa opposite Clint and Phil.  He was tense and couldn’t quite stop looking between Clint and Phil, as if trying to guess what was going on.  Clint tried not to resent the other man for that, but the easy teasing atmosphere that had surrounded him and Phil for most of their conversation had completely disappeared.  “Mr Barton is working as my associate,” Phil said, clearly hoping to ease some of Lieutenant Rogers’ sudden tension.

“Oh.  Right,” Rogers said.

Clint watched as Rogers pulled out the newspaper he had tucked under his arm and felt his curiosity grow.  “So, what can we help you with, Lieutenant?” Phil said, breaking the somewhat awkward silence that had fallen over them.

“Well,” Rogers began, clearly still hesitant.  “I’m not trying to accuse anyone, but I believe I have some information that is important to your case.”

“What kind of information?” Clint asked, feeling his gaze sharpen.

Even though he remained casually sprawled on the sofa, Clint didn’t think Phil missed the way he had suddenly tensed.  From the way Rogers had swallowed, the young Lieutenant had spotted the sudden tension as well.  Nevertheless, Rogers straightened his shoulders.  “I was reading the newspaper this morning and in it, I noticed there was an article about Miss Everhart’s murder,” Rogers said.  “The reporter managed to interview Sir John Stern, the MP, for it and normally I wouldn’t have said anything, but…”

He paused and Clint tried to wait patiently for Rogers to continue.  “Sir John says in the article that he left straight after dinner and went home, so he knows nothing about the murder at all,” Rogers said.  “But that’s not true.”

Clint blinked in surprise as Phil arched an eyebrow.  “It’s not?” Phil said.

“No, sir,” Rogers replied.  “It took me a little while to place the voice, but on my way back from seeing Peggy to her room that night, I overheard Dr Banner arguing with someone in the corridor.  They didn’t see me, but I managed to catch a glimpse of them before I ducked around the corner again.  They were arguing pretty fiercely and the second man was mostly in the shadows, so I assumed it was either Mr Stark or Mr Stane.”

Phil nodded as Rogers paused for a moment.  “But now you don’t think so?” he prompted when it didn’t seem like Rogers was going to continue on his own.

Rogers shook his head.  “No,” he agreed.  “Now I’m pretty sure the second man was Sir John and that he was at the hotel long after he said he wasn’t.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that?” Phil asked and Clint tensed even further on, even though he tried to give no outward appearance of it as he continued to casually smoke his cigarette.

“Yes, I am,” Rogers said firmly.

“Thank you very much for telling us,” Phil said.

Nodding, Rogers rose to his feet and gave both Phil and Clint a polite smile.  “I’m sorry, I have somewhere else to be,” he said.  “I just thought you should know.”

Clint remained quiet until Rogers had crossed the foyer and headed towards the elevators.  “Well, that was interesting,” Clint drawled.

“Indeed,” Phil agreed, but before Clint could ask any other questions, he saw the usually put-together clerk from the front desk rushing over, a pale and unsettled expression on his face.  “Sirs, I am so sorry to interrupt…” he began in a low voice as soon as he was close enough; this close, Clint could also see how wide and frightened the man’s eyes were.  “It’s just…”

“What is it?” Phil asked, his voice patient and soothing.

The clerk instantly seemed to calm.  He took a deep breath and straightened his jacket.  “Sir, I’ve just telephoned Scotland Yard,” he said.  “There’s been another murder.”

 

*~*

Phil felt his steps falter as he walked down the corridor when he saw the two police sergeants carrying the covered stretcher out of one of the Savoy’s suites.  The grey blanket had been rather carelessly placed over the body and from the gap between the blanket and the stretcher Phil saw the cuff of a well-dressed man, the white of the shirt stained with dark red blood.  When he glanced away from the stretcher again, he found Sitwell standing in the doorway of the suite watching him.  Straightening his shoulders, Phil walked over, acutely conscious of Clint and his sharp eyes behind him.

“Coulson,” Sitwell greeted with a tired sigh.

“What happened?” Phil asked him.

Sitwell’s eyes flicked over Phil’s shoulder to where Phil knew Clint would be standing, but Sitwell didn’t say anything about the other man’s presence.  “Just after breakfast this morning, Justin Hammer was found dead in his suite’s sitting room by one of the hotel’s maids,” Sitwell said, the tiredness in his eyes evident in his tone.

“How did he die?” Phil said, trying to keep his own voice as detached and professional as possible.

“His throat was cut,” Sitwell said grimly.

Phil arched an eyebrow in response.  He’d seen enough death in the War to know that was a particularly messy and painful death; Hammer’s murder would appear to have been just as angry and brutal as Miss Everhart’s.  “Violent,” he said simply to Sitwell.

Sitwell gave a shaky sigh.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “The crime scene is all yours if you wanted to look at it.”

For a moment, Phil watched Sitwell walk down the corridor, before he moved towards the door to the suite.  He paused in the doorway, turning back to look at Clint, who was still standing where he had been.  Phil arched his eyebrow again.  “Are you not coming?” he asked the other man.

Clint blinked, before he smirked at Phil.  “Are you actually inviting me into the crime scene, Detective?” he asked.

“Well, it’s either that or watch you hound me through the door,” Phil said.

His smirk growing, Clint walked over to where Phil was waiting, before brushing past him to enter the suite first.  Phil was almost sure the way he’d pressed fleetingly against Phil as he’d passed was deliberate, but even if it wasn’t, it still took a moment to shake the momentary press of firm muscle from his mind to follow.  He joined Clint at the entrance to the sitting room and all pleasant thoughts vanished from his mind.

Even without the somewhat crudely drawn outline, it was obvious from the large dark red stain on the carpet where the body had been found.  The nearby small table had been knocked over and a tumbler of something alcoholic had been smashed, some of the glass shards splashed with blood.  What was even more chilling, however, was the letter opener lying beside the crude outline.  It looked more like a small, ornate dagger than a letter opener and both the blade and the handle were covered in dried blood.  “I guess we found the murder weapon,” Clint said, his voice low and slightly hoarse.

Phil nodded and looked away from the blood, forcing his mind to focus on searching for clues.  Nothing else seemed out of place and the signs of a struggle were limited to the overturned table and a chair that had been pushed out of place, indicating that Hammer hadn’t had much time to react before he’d been killed.  “Do you think Hammer knew the murderer and let him in like Miss Everhart did?” Clint asked quietly.

“It’s possible, but doubtful,” Phil said, turning to face Clint and noting the other man’s grave and serious expression.  “Hammer was drinking at a fairly early hour, which tends not to be something you do in company,” Phil added in explanation.  “And there are only the remains of one glass.”

“Yes, I saw that too,” Clint agreed.  “Do you mind if I go and check something?”

“No, go ahead,” Phil said automatically, before he reached out with a hand on Clint’s forearm to stop the other man as he turned away.  When Clint turned back, Phil had to swallow the jolt that came with seeing those sharp eyes up close.  He was close enough to see the gold and hazel that swirled through the blue.  “If you touch anything,” Phil continued, relieved when his voice came out sounding mostly normal, “just be careful to wear gloves.”

Clint nodded with a smirk, before he turned and disappeared down the corridor to the door of the suite.  Phil cleared his throat and tried to force his focus back to the case.  He had never been so distracted before during an investigation, not even on the last case he’d been investigating as a Scotland Yard detective.  Phil refused to let a pair of sharp, pretty eyes and a teasing smirk distract him from solving this one either, even if there was a voice in the back of Phil’s mind that was insisting Clint was far more than a pair of pretty eyes and a mischievous smirk.

Turning away from the sitting room, Phil decided to try Hammer’s bedroom for clues.  Pulling on a pair of leather gloves, he joined the police sergeant already searching the room with a nod in the sergeant’s direction.  The sergeant nodded back, before he seemed to hesitate.  “Is everything all right, Sergeant?” Phil asked.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied.  Seeming to take a breath, the sergeant squared his shoulders and walked over to Phil, holding something out to him.  “I found this on the floor near the bed, sir.  And there’s a letter on the bedside table you should probably read too.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Phil said.

He looked down at the photograph the sergeant had handed him and for a moment, he thought the woman in the black and white photograph was Christine Everhart.  However, the more he looked at it, the more he realised the fashions were around twenty years out of date and there were subtle differences in the woman’s face.  She looked so startlingly similar to Miss Everhart that Phil could almost guarantee the two women were related; judging by the age of the fashions, Phil suspected the woman in the photograph was Miss Everhart’s mother.  Phil flipped the photograph over to see if there was anything written on the back and found a small note written in faded ink by an elegant hand.

_J, I will always treasure this last summer.  I will never forget you, my love.  Amelia.  1915._

Phil looked up from the photograph when the sergeant cleared his throat.  Phil was amused to see that the sergeant was blushing faintly, but his expression was determined when he spoke.  “Sir, I have yet to inform Detective Inspector Sitwell of what has been found, so could I ask you to return the items when you’re done?”

“Don’t worry, Sergeant,” Phil told him with a small smile.  “I promise not to abscond with the evidence.”

The sergeant blushed a little deeper.  “Thank you, sir,” he said.

Phil gave him another reassuring smile and moved to pick up the particularly crumpled note that had been left on the table beside the bed, next to an initialled fountain pen that had obviously belonged to Hammer.  Before he could read the note, however, he was interrupted by a voice from the doorway.  “Find something interesting, Detective?” Clint said, a smirk firmly fixed on his face as he sauntered into the room; Phil absently noted he too now wore leather gloves.  “And is it scandalous?”

For a moment, Phil ignored the question.  “Did you find whatever you were checking for?” he asked.

Clint waved a hand almost absently.  “Oh, there’s no doubt that whoever the murderer is, he gained entrance to Hammer’s suite by picking the door lock – which explains why Hammer wasn’t expecting him.”

Sitwell entered the room just behind Clint, his eyebrow arched challengingly in Phil’s direction.  Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “Mr Barton is acting as my associate while investigating this case,” he said mildly, shooting a glare in Sitwell’s direction because he knew that already and clearly wanted Phil to say something where the sergeant could witness it.

When Phil turned to glance at Clint, he found an unreadable expression on the other man’s face and Clint’s sharp eyes were narrowed and staring intently at Phil.  “In answer to your question,” Phil continued, trying to act as if Clint’s intent stare wasn’t a little unnerving.  “The sergeant found a photograph on the floor beside the bed and a note on the bedside table.”

“Good work, Sergeant,” Sitwell said.

The sergeant blushed again.  “Thank you, sir.”

Phil passed the photograph to Clint when he reached for it.  It was a relief when that intent stare moved away from Phil again.  Clint stared at the photograph for a moment, before passing it on to Sitwell and Phil felt Clint move up behind him as he picked up the half-written note from the bedside table.  “What does the note say?” Clint asked in a low voice, close enough that Phil could feel the ghost of his warmth pressed along his shoulder and side.

“It appears to be a half-finished draft of a blackmail note,” Phil said, shifting the paper so Clint could read it over Phil’s shoulder.

“You’re not the only one who knows your secret.  I know you’re not who you pretend to be.  I know who you really are.  And most importantly, I know what you’ve done.  My continued silence will cost you,” Clint read.  As Phil was watching him, he saw Clint’s eyes widen.  “Hammer was blackmailing the murderer?”

“I think it’s more worrying than that,” Phil said grimly.

“How?” Sitwell asked.

Phil turned to Sitwell, only noticing as he looked at the Detective Inspector how close he was still standing to Clint.  From his expression, Sitwell had noticed too, but he didn’t say anything.  “What is more worrying than the fact Hammer was trying to blackmail the person who ended up killing him?” Clint said, making no move to step away from Phil or even showing he was aware of how close they actually were.

“I know you’re not who you pretend to be,” Sitwell quoted, before he muttered a muffled curse.  “Coulson, please don’t tell me we have a murderer with a hidden identity.”

With an apologetic smile, Phil shook his head slightly.  “I’m not sure I can do that,” he said.  “If Hammer knew one of the guests at the Savoy had a secret in their past, one they wanted to keep buried, it would definitely be motive enough to kill him.”

Sitwell sighed.  “What about the photograph?” he said.  “And the note on the back?  Do you think Hammer is the mysterious ‘J’?”

“He would have been young when that photograph was taken,” Phil said.  “Most likely, he would have been barely twenty.”

“Barely twenty?” Clint asked with a confused expression, before realisation hit.  “The clothes.  They’re too old fashioned for it to be Christine Everhart.  You think the photograph is of her mother.”

The words were more a statement than a question, but Phil nodded anyway.  “I do,” he agreed.  “The resemblance is quite similar.”  He turned to look at Sitwell.  “Did you find any photographs among Miss Everhart’s belongings?” he asked.

Sitwell blinked for a moment, before consulting his notebook.  “I don’t have any record of it,” he said, “but I’ll have someone check that.  Do you think Miss Everhart was involved in the blackmail?”

“It would be an explanation as to why she let her murderer into her suite,” Phil replied.  Then he paused.  “What puzzles me is why Hammer would have a photograph of Miss Everhart’s mother.  It seems very odd.”

Shaking off his thoughts, Phil passed the blackmail note to Sitwell.  “It might also be worth analysing on the note and trying to match it to the letters you found among Miss Everhart’s belongings,” he added.

“You think Hammer was Miss Everhart’s lover?” Sitwell asked, surprised.

“Oh, we’re fairly certain he was,” Clint drawled in reply.  He walked over to the wooden dresser to the side of the room and picked up something in a gloved hand.  Then he held out his palm for Phil and Sitwell to see.  “Look familiar?” he asked Phil with a smirk.

Phil felt his eyebrow rise at Clint’s sense of dramatics, but he couldn’t deny the small, gold cufflink in Clint’s palm was indeed familiar.  Phil reached into his breast pocket as Sitwell narrowed his eyes and began to look irritated.  He pulled out the gold cufflink that matched the one Clint was holding and showed Sitwell.  “Barton found this by the bed in Miss Everhart’s suite,” he said.

“I could charge you with interfering in a police investigation for that, Coulson,” Sitwell said, frowning.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry,” Phil apologised.  “I should have.”

Sitwell huffed.  “Yes, you should have,” he said, before relenting.  “I’ll get the note analysed and compared to Miss Everhart’s lover’s letters, but I don’t think that will disagree with your conclusion.”

“Thank you,” Phil told him.

Sitwell sighed and fixed him with a pointed look.  “Just don’t keep anything else from me, all right?” he said.

Phil gave a small smile.  “I promise.”

 

*~*

Clint crossed to the window as Phil and Sitwell continued to have a quiet conversation about the blackmail note.  The two men clearly had a deep friendship and Clint was still shocked that Phil had clearly gone against that when he hadn’t told Sitwell about Clint’s discovery of the cufflink.  Clint didn’t understand why Phil had done that – or why he’d introduced Clint as his associate.  Somehow Phil trusted him enough to put his friendship with Sitwell and his own reputation on the line and Clint was still reeling from that.  Why would Phil trust him like that?  Two days ago, he’d been a murder suspect.

No one had ever trusted Clint so blindly before.  Not even Natasha.

He watched the view of the River Thames through the window, not really seeing it, as he struggled to get a hold on his emotions again, so he could turn his attention back to the case.  Natasha had been right – he was already in deep, otherwise the realisation of how much Phil was willing to trust him wouldn’t have affected him so much.  The feeling wasn’t one-sided either and perhaps that was what had sent Clint reeling the most.  Phil might have trusted Clint more than Clint thought he should, but Clint trusted him right back – and as impulsive, rash and sometimes foolhardy as he was, Clint rarely trusted people.  He’d learnt over the years that the people you relied on the most were the ones who ended up betraying you.  The only exception to that was Natasha.

Yet, somehow, he trusted Phil now too.  Clint could only hope the detective proved to be another exception to the rule.

He heard Phil walk up quietly behind him.  “Are you all right, Clint?” the other man asked softly, coming to stand beside him at the window.  “I know death isn’t always easy to deal with.”

Clint felt an almost wistful smile cross his face at the quiet understanding in Phil’s tone.  “It’s not that,” Clint admitted before he’d really thought about it.  “Believe it or not, Detective, I’m no stranger to death.”

Phil didn’t say anything in judgement; instead, he just stood quietly beside Clint for a moment.  “It may not be much, but I offer a willing ear if you want to talk about whatever’s on your mind,” Phil said finally.  “Or I can fill you in on anything else we find if you would prefer to go and see Natasha.”

Clint turned to stare at Phil, almost sceptical of the space Phil was allowing him, but he couldn’t see anything except genuine understanding in those kind, watchful eyes.  Phil was undeniably serious and meant what he’d said.  Clint smiled gratefully at him for the offer, but he didn’t need it.  “Why do you trust me so much?” he said before he could decide it was a bad idea.

He knew he’d asked the question before, but also knew there was a deeper answer to it than Phil not being able to disprove his alibi.  Phil watched him for a moment, before he let out a breath that in another man would have been a sigh.  “I trust you because there is a lot more to you than anyone sees, let alone gives you credit for,” he said finally.  “You just need an opportunity to show it, so I’m giving you one.”

Phil’s answer floored Clint.  There was both faith and hope in those words, as if Phil believed Clint would prove Phil right and everyone else wrong, even though there was a risk he would end up doing the opposite.  “Besides, if I didn’t, you would just break into my crime scene again,” Phil added, clearly attempting to lighten the mood.

“What can I say, Detective?” Clint quipped back with a smirk.  “I’m just not that easy to get rid of.”

He saw Phil fighting his own smile.  “So I am beginning to learn,” Phil said dryly.

Clint turned back to face the sitting room in an attempt to hide the way his smirk slid into a genuine smile of amusement.  As he did, a flash caught the corner of his gaze.  Blinking, he closed his mouth and frowned.  Phil, seeming to realise his attention was caught by something important, remained silent behind him.  Clint moved to where he’d seen the flash against the carpet, carefully skirting the bloodstain and frowned again.  There was nothing there.  Cocking his head to the side, Clint scanned the carpet around where the flash had been, looking for a sign of what he’d seen.  On instinct, he bent down and peered underneath the sofa, grinning when he realised he’d found what he’d been searching for.

“What is it?” Phil asked quietly from behind him.

Standing up, Clint held out the cigarette case he’d just found under the sofa.  The small case was gold in colour and clearly expensive, with a set of initials ornately carved onto the front.  “Is that J.B.B.?” Clint asked.

Phil nodded as he took the case and opened it.  “French cigarettes too,” he said.

Clint arched an eyebrow.  “So our murderer is French?” he quipped, not really meaning the words as anything but flippant.

Looking up at him, Phil nodded again.  “He definitely has a connection to France.  There were French cigarettes in the ashtray in Miss Everhart’s sitting room as well.”

“Well, that does bring to mind a certain person,” Clint said.  “Particularly if Hammer was Miss Everhart’s lover…”

“You mean Stane,” Phil said grimly.

Clint nodded.  “I do.  He stayed at the Savoy last night, so he’s got the motive and the opportunity for both murders,” he replied.  “He’s also recently arrived back from Paris.”

“That doesn’t explain the blackmail note, however,” Phil said thoughtfully.  “Stane is too public to have a secret past the gossip pages haven’t discovered yet.  Nor does it explain the initials J.B.B.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Clint told him softly.  “Even the most infamous of people could have secrets hidden in their past they don’t wish people to know.”

He wasn’t sure what Phil saw in his face, but Clint could feel the shadows of his past rising up in his mind.  What the rest of society believed him to be and the person he was born were two dramatically different people.  He was not related to the Romanoff royal family as he and Natasha had hinted at enough times to have it turn into rumour; he’d actually be born in Iowa to a poor family and a drunk father, which was hardly the aristocratic blood he was rumoured to have.  He hadn’t grown up in luxury either.  After his parents’ death, he and his brother had been shipped off to England and a distant relative who hadn’t wanted him any more than his father had.  It hadn’t taken long for Barney to decide to run away and take Clint with him.  Clint sometimes wondered what society would think if they knew that the happiest part of Clint’s childhood had been when he was part of a travelling circus.

Clint blinked and shook off the memories before he could get too lost in them.  “I assume you know who the initials belong to?” he asked, going over Phil’s last words in his mind.

“No,” Phil replied with a brief shake of his head.  “There is an obvious person they fit, however, who won’t provide anyone to confirm his alibi.”  A trace of a wry smile crossed his face at Clint’s questioning look.  “James Buchanan Barnes,” he said.

“The kid?” Clint said.  “He’s barely twenty!”

“Are you saying that Sergeant Barnes couldn’t be the murderer based solely on his age?” Phil asked mildly.

Clint frowned.  “No, but it would make it more difficult to be involved with Miss Everhart’s mother considering Miss Everhart is older than him,” he countered.

Phil blinked a little and arched an eyebrow.  Clint rolled his eyes and started explaining before Phil could ask, even though Clint was pretty sure the detective had already considered what he was about to say.  “Well, the note on the back of the photograph is addressed to a mysterious ‘J’ and then we find a cigarette case with the initials J.B.B. with links to both victims and a blackmail note that hints at a hidden identity,” Clint said dryly.  “And you _don’t_ believe any of these facts are connected?”

For a moment, Phil looked like he was fighting a smile.  “That would be a rather large and improbable coincidence,” he said.  “But the ‘J’ could also refer to Justin Hammer.  We did find the photograph in his bedroom.”

Snorting a little in disbelief, Clint sent him an arch look.  “You mean where we also found _the blackmail note_?” he said.  “Because it’s not like Hammer could be using the photograph as a form of _proof.”_

“It’s blackmail _notes_ actually,” Sitwell said, walking over and clearly having overheard Clint’s last statement.  “Our mysterious suspect with the hidden identity wasn’t the only person Hammer was blackmailing.”

Sitwell handed Phil two more notes and several photographs, and as Clint watched, Phil expression shuttered and his jaw clenched.  Clint wanted to ask what it was that had made Phil react like that, but he wasn’t sure he’d get an answer.  From the sidelong look Sitwell sent him, the Detective Inspector was at as much of a loss as Clint was.  “There are no names on the notes,” Sitwell added, “but there’s at least one recognisable face in the photographs.”

“Miss Margaret Carter,” Phil said grimly, passing Clint the photographs.

Clint looked down and immediately recognised Peggy Carter.  Most of the photographs showed her sitting or dancing with another gentleman, but nothing seemed overly scandalous about it.  Then Clint flipped to the last photograph and understood the reason for Phil’s grimace.  In that photograph, Peggy and the unnamed man had been caught in bed and from the way they were tangled up in each other, it was clear they were sleeping together, despite the fact that they were still mostly dressed.

“From the wording of the blackmail note, it seems the unnamed man is married,” Sitwell said.

With an arched eyebrow, Clint glanced up from the photograph.  “How shocking,” he said dryly.  Then he glanced at Phil, who was still frowning.  “Do we know where these photographs were taken?  It doesn’t look like England.”

“India,” Phil answered and Clint shot him a surprised look, remembering that earlier, Phil had been very interested in the fact that Dr Banner had also just returned from India.  “Peggy’s father has spent the last five years acting as Governor of the Indian province of Madras and the whole family travelled with him,” he continued in explanation.

Clint filed the information away, fully intending to ask Phil about it later.  “And the second blackmail note?” he asked.

“It alleges the recipient is guilty of kidnapping,” Sitwell said as Phil handed Clint the note.  “Or at least an attempt at it.”

“Bring anyone in particular to mind?” Phil said dryly as Clint read over the note.

Clint looked up at Phil and felt his eyes widen a little with surprise.  “Stark,” he said.  “You think one of the guests at the hotel is behind Stark’s attempted kidnapping last year?”

Phil nodded.  “I’m sure of it,” he said.  “I just don’t know if it has any connection to the murders or the theft of the Blue Star Diamond.”

“Well I know who I shall be questioning next,” Sitwell said grimly.  “Obadiah Stane has just become our number one suspect.”

Phil nodded in agreement, but Clint caught the little twist at the corner of his mouth that meant Phil wasn’t entirely persuaded.  The more Clint watched the detective, the more he was convinced Phil knew something he wasn’t sharing.  Now, however, was not the time to confront him about it, even if Clint agreed.  Obadiah Stane had a connection to both victims, had recently come back to London from Paris and, if the blackmail note had been his, a secret he wanted to keep hidden.  Yet, somehow, Clint couldn’t quite see him being the murderer.

“Did you want to come with me when I question Stane, Coulson?” Sitwell asked, breaking into Clint’s thoughts.

“No, thank you,” Phil said.  “I was actually hoping to speak with Dr Banner again and look into a few other things this afternoon.”

Sitwell nodded, before he glanced between Clint and Phil, a sardonic smile crossing his face.  “Just don’t forget to tell me if either of you discover something, this time,” he warned.

“Of course, Detective Inspector,” Clint said with a smirk.  “We promise.”

Sitwell just gave Clint a sceptical look and rolled his eyes.

 

*~*


	9. Secrets Divulged

Phil carefully sealed his note into an envelope and handed it to the politely waiting desk clerk.  “If you would make sure that Sergeant Barnes receives that as soon as possible?” he said.

“Of course, sir,” the desk clerk replied.

After discovering that Dr Banner had yet to come down from his rooms yet and at Phil’s reluctance to disturb the doctor where Stark or Miss Potts could potentially overhear, Clint had excused himself to go and speak to Natasha.  As hesitant as Phil was to let him leave, he had understood why and it had given Phil a chance to do a few things without Clint’s sharp eyes catching him.  Hence the letter Phil had left with the Savoy’s front desk clerk for Sergeant Barnes.

Over the last few days, Clint’s warm presence, intelligence and wit had become a familiar constant and Phil was still bemused at the ease with which it had happened.  Phil was used to keeping everyone around him at a distance and yet, somehow, Clint had slipped completely under his defences and Phil found himself trusting Clint more and more.  It didn’t help his detachment that Clint was so much more than he appeared; he was handsome and a little rough around the edges without a doubt, but he was also ruthlessly smart, sarcastic and almost heartbreakingly loyal.  Phil was finding it _very_ hard to resist the combination.

“Ah, Detective Coulson,” a voice said from behind him and Phil turned around to find Sir John Stern walking up to the front desk.

“Sir John,” Phil greeted politely, wondering what the MP wanted with him.

Stern smiled politely, but the expression never quite made it to his eyes.  “I was very sorry to hear about your uncle, the Viscount.  Such a pity you couldn’t inherit the title.”

Phil kept his polite smile on his face only through practice and strength of will.  He still missed his uncle and his calm and logical advice and it had been more of a surprise to Phil than his cousin that his uncle had left him most of the Cavendish fortune when he’d died.  His cousin, as his uncle’s son, had inherited the title and the estate, but Phil didn’t really mind.  He’d never wanted to be lord of a country manor.  “Thank you, sir,” Phil said to Stern, making an effort to keep his thoughts from his voice.

“There was something I needed to speak to you about, Detective.  If you have the time, of course,” Stern continued, but Phil knew it was more an order than a suggestion.

“Of course,” he replied, moving away from the Savoy’s front desk.  “What can I help you with, sir?”

Stern gave another of his fake polite smiles.  “It’s a delicate matter, you understand,” he said.  “And I certainly don’t want to get the young man into trouble without cause… but I thought you should know in light of recent events.”

Phil nodded, letting Stern talk around the subject for a minute.  “I understand, sir,” he said.

“Good,” Stern said.  “There’s a young sergeant staying at the hotel.  He’s friends with Lord Astwell’s girl, which is probably the only reason he has rooms here at all.  I can’t tell you where the accusations come from, you understand, but I have come into some information that James Buchanan Barnes is a very unstable young man.”  Stern paused for a moment, eyeing Phil in a clear effort to see how gravely Phil was taking this.  Phil attempted to look as serious as possible, even though he wanted nothing more than to get as far away from Sir John Stern as possible.

“There is even a report that he was involved in the death of one of his fellow soldiers,” Stern continued.  “Nothing substantiated, of course.  I just thought you should know, Coulson.”

“Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Sir John,” Phil replied mildly.

As Stern strode off again after a perfunctory goodbye, Phil considered what Stern had just told him.  He couldn’t rule out that Sergeant Barnes was more than he appeared, but Stern’s description of him was distinctly different to Phil’s own impressions of the young man.  Not to mention, he knew Peggy was a woman who knew her mind and doubted she would be friends with someone who could be as unstable as Stern had implied.  Not to mention that Stern seemed very specific about naming Sergeant Barnes when Phil doubted the two would have ever have crossed paths before.

It was definitely something to think about.

Shaking off his growing frustration, Phil put his hat on and headed out of the Savoy Hotel.  He wasn’t sure what else to do for the case and that absolutely frustrated him; suspects and motives were swirling around his head, as unsettled as his thoughts regarding Clint.  Hoping that maybe a walk would help clear his thoughts, Phil headed for the Thames and the pier.  As he did, he noticed the slightly rumpled figure that pushed away from the wall of the Savoy furthest from the entrance that still kept it in sight.  Phil slowed his pace a little and watched out of the corner of his eye as the man crushed out a cigarette beneath his shoe and moved to follow Phil.  For a moment, Phil’s heart beat faster and his muscles clenched, ready to fight or run.  Then he had to bite back a laugh when he recognised who it was.

Tony Stark was following him.

It wasn’t even a particularly good tail.  Stark followed Phil close enough to be obvious and made no move to hide his presence.  The more Phil watched, the more he began to believe that Stark’s attempts to follow him had less to do with knowing where Phil was going and more with a hesitance to approach.  In an attempt to encourage Stark, Phil paused to lean against the nearby railing and let his gaze wander over the murky Thames and the city beyond.  Finally, after what felt like a _very_ long ten minutes, Stark settled against the railing next to Phil.

“Good morning, Detective,” Stark said and if Phil hadn’t been watching for it, he never would have spotted the nervousness beneath the charm.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’d be more impressed, Mr Stark, if I hadn’t noticed you trailing behind me from the hotel,” Phil said dryly.  “Also, I feel compelled to point out that it is afternoon.”

Stark scowled in response.  “You know, you’re not making this easy,” he snapped.

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to,” Phil shot back, careful to keep his voice mild instead letting his sense of frustration leak out.

Sighing as if Phil was purposefully aggravating him, Stark turned to face Phil.  “I’m just going to come right out and say it, okay?” he said, still frowning.  “I’m the person that sent you the unsigned dinner invitation for the other night.”

Out of everything Stark could have said, that Phil had not expected.  He took a deep breath to hide his surprise and thought about the implications of Stark’s words.  As if they’d been waiting for the final clue, several things slotting into place in Phil’s mind.  “You were interrupted by your godfather’s unannounced arrival,” Phil said, remembering Stane’s impromptu gathering.

Stark nodded.  “I didn’t even get the chance to send you a message,” he replied.  Phil watched Stark look him up and down out of the corner of his eye, Phil’s gaze still directed towards the Thames.  “And I have to admit,” Stark continued, leaning on his elbow as he used his free hand to gesture at Phil.  “I certainly wasn’t expecting the world-famous Detective Coulson to looked like… well, _you_.”

Phil ignored the insult with the relative ease of long practice.  “Most people never do,” he told Stark dryly.  Stark opened his mouth as if belatedly realising he’d offended Phil, but Phil cut his off before he could say anything.  “Do you still wish for my help, Mr Stark?” he asked.

“Yeah.   _Yes_ ,” Stark said.  “Money is no problem.  I can pay you whatever…”

“There’s no need to pay me, Mr Stark,” Phil interrupted.  “I’m beginning to think you’re not the only one with a friend in trouble.”

Stark let out a noisy breath and cursed.  “He really did it, didn’t he?” he said in a surprisingly quiet and vulnerable voice.

“I have nothing that will prove it,” Phil said just as softly.  “Just the fact that both your friend Dr Banner and Miss Carter, the daughter of mine, both recently returned from the Madras province of India.  The same region that is rumoured to be the original home of the Blue Star Diamond before it was stolen centuries ago.”

Sighing again, Stark nodded.  “Bruce came back from India ranting about it,” he said.  “Kept talking about how it was a holy relic that belonged to the people, not around someone’s neck.  He said he’d met a girl over there who agreed with him.”  Stark paused for a long moment, his expression sad.  “I just wanted to stop him doing something stupid.  I guess I failed, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t fail,” Phil told him firmly, touched despite himself that Stark would go so far for a friend, because Phil would bet a considerable sum that Dr Banner didn’t know of Stark’s efforts and wasn’t ever _supposed_ to know.  “Like I said, there is no proof against Dr Banner and if it _does_ prove true, I will do everything in my power to help.”

“I, uh… thanks,” Stark said.

Phil nodded.  As he looked at Stark, he was reminded of the blackmail note they’d found in Hammer’s room.  “Just do me something as a favour, Mr Stark?” he asked, finally turning to face the other man.

Stark’s eyes instantly turned wary.  “Sure,” he said.

“Be careful and watch your back,” Phil said.  “I fear there is a very dangerous man on the loose.”

It perhaps wasn’t the warning Phil really wanted to give, but it would have to do until Phil could prove that the blackmail note had been intended for Obadiah Stane.  The wary expression in Stark’s eyes softened at Phil’s words and he nodded.  “I will,” he said.

Phil nodded back in reply.  “Thank you,” he said.  “I will let you know if I find anything.”

“You do that, Detective,” Stark called out as Phil started to walk away and Phil didn’t even need to turn around to know Stark was smirking.

*~*

“Good morning, beautiful lady,” Clint greeted with a grin when Natasha opened the door to her suite.

“It’s after noon,” Natasha said flatly in reply, before turning to lead the way to the sitting room and the ever-present pot of coffee; Clint had long since stopped trying to figure out how Natasha _always_ knew when he wanted to talk and therefore always had a pot of coffee waiting for them.  “Also, your continual cheerful morning mood is becoming obnoxious,” she added.

“I thought you liked my smile,” Clint shot back, stripping out of his suit jacket and sprawling in his favourite chair.  “It’s one of my best features,” he added as he began rolling his shirt sleeves up his forearms again.

“You’re going to wrinkle another shirt,” Natasha warned him as she poured them both coffee.  “And your arms and your eyes are your best features.”  She paused, passing Clint his cup of coffee, before taking a sip of her own cup and eyeing him over the rim.  “Your smile is passable.”

Clint opened his mouth to protest when he caught the glint in Natasha’s eye and the smile she was trying so hard to hide.  “You tease,” he grumbled.

Natasha grinned.  “So… are you going to talk to him about it?”

At Natasha’s blunt words, Clint swallowed heavily and wondered if he could get away with pretending to not be able to follow her sudden change in conversation topic.  “Talk to who about what?” he attempted to bluff.

“Coulson,” Natasha said.  “There’s a reason you’ve been smiling more recently and I think it has as much to do with the detective as with your new sense of purpose in life.”

Clint blinked, not sure what to make of what Natasha had just said.  “Detective work suits you, _dousha_ ,” she added softly.  “And just think – your other, less conventional skills will be useful too.”

“So you think I should open my own detective agency when all this is over?” Clint asked with a smirk, settling back into his chair with his coffee.

“No,” Natasha replied.  “What I’m suggesting is you continue to work with Phil on his cases.”

For a moment, Clint was surprised at Natasha’s casual use of Phil’s first name.  She smirked at him over the rim of her cup again as if sensing his thoughts.  “I also think you should do carnal, naked things with him as soon as possible,” she said.

Clint choked on his coffee.  “What?  How did…?   _What_?” he spluttered.

“I went to visit him yesterday,” Natasha said.  “He runs his agency offices out of the front of his apartment and he doesn’t have a secretary.  I tried to seduce him on his own sofa.  He wasn’t even tempted.”

Clint opened and closed his mouth a few times before he found his voice long enough to say something.  “Well, that explains why the two of you are on a first name basis,” he said.

Natasha’s expression told him he was clearly missing the point.  “Clint, he didn’t even _look_ ,” she said.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Clint countered, although combined with what Clint had already observed watching Phil, Clint kind of thought it _did_.

With a huff, Natasha glared at him.  “You’re impossible,” she said.

“You love me anyway,” Clint shot back with a smirk, before he felt his expression fall.  “I think Phil knows something and isn’t telling me.”

“So confront him about it,” Natasha said with a shrug.  “Better yet, go to his apartment and confront him there and then do those naked, carnal things we talked about.”  Natasha grinned.  “I won’t expect you back until morning.”

Clint rolled his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the way he felt his cheeks heat with a blush.  “I’m helping him in a professional capacity, Nat,” he said.

Natasha simply arched a silent eyebrow and smirked at him.  Clint felt his blush deepen at her continued stare.  “Yet, you wish it wasn’t _just_ professional, don’t you?” Natasha teased.

Leaping to his feet, Clint began pacing in front of his chair.  “Tash…”

He turned and Natasha was suddenly in front of him.  She raised a hand and placed it in the middle of his chest.  Clint wasn’t sure if the gesture was meant to halt him or soothe him.  “It’s not like you to shy away from a scandal,” she said.

“Aside from the fact that it’s still illegal in England, maybe I don’t _want_ it to be a scandal this time,” he retorted before he could think about it.

Clint blew out an explosive breath and barely resisted the urge to tug a hand through his hair.  When he registered what he’d just said, Clint felt a stab of fear low in his stomach that threatened to freeze him in his tracks.  It wasn’t the words that had scared Clint, but rather how much he’d _meant_ them.  Phil wasn’t just an intriguing and attractive man he wanted to take to bed, he was intelligent and ruthless and had a dry sense of humour that made Clint smile.  Clint didn’t just want to sleep with him.  Clint wanted to _spend time_ with him.  “Oh,” he muttered.

Natasha’s soft expression said she’d read all of Clint’s thoughts and feelings on his face.  “Go and talk to him,” she said.  “Then lure him into bed, because he’ll never do it.  I’ll keep investigating the second murder while you’re… busy.”

Blinking, Clint looked at her and shook off his thoughts.  “How do you know about Hammer’s murder?” he asked.

“A lovely police sergeant stopped by earlier to ask me for my alibi,” Natasha smirked.  “I believe you were busy investigating a crime scene and flirting with a certain detective.”

Clint couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth, even as he shook his head and fought another blush.  It was ridiculous.  “You ate the poor sergeant alive, didn’t you?” he said fondly.

“Of course,” Natasha replied.

“I love you,” Clint grinned.

Natasha smirked back, before rolling her eyes.  “Go and talk to your detective, _dousha_ ,” she said.  “Before I tie you up and leave you on his doorstep like a Christmas present.”

*~*

_Apartment 401, Regent’s Court, London, June 19th, 1934_

When Phil found himself staring out the window in his office for the third time in an hour, he sighed in frustration.  Setting down his pen, Phil realised that not even going over everything he knew about the murders was able to keep his mind from Clint Barton.  It was both ridiculous and unnecessarily torturous to let his mind dwell on what Clint was doing with Natasha at that moment.  The pair indisputably made a stunning couple and Clint had already proved how far he was willing to go on Miss Romanoff’s behalf.  Phil ignored his stab of jealousy because it wouldn’t do anyone any good.

Hearing a knock at the door to his apartment, Phil stood and took a brief moment to smooth down his jacket and tie before striding out of his office.  He opened the door to find a very nervous looking James Barnes standing on his front step.  “Sergeant Barnes,” Phil greeted and stepped to the side.  “Won’t you please come in?”

Barnes nodded his thanks as he entered.  “Detective Coulson,” he said.

Phil led the way into his front sitting room, which was the one he kept for clients.  Gesturing for Barnes to take a seat, he went to the sideboard and poured them both a large glass of scotch.  This was going to be a difficult conversation and judging by the nervous way Barnes was fiddling with the brim of his hat, he could use a drink.  Walking over, Phil passed Barnes one of the glasses before taking a seat opposite him.

“So, I got your note,” Barnes said, breaking the silence.

“Thank you for coming,” Phil replied with a nod.

Both the drink and the calm words had been an attempt to reassure the sergeant, but they only seemed to be making Barnes even more nervous.  “What did you want to talk to me about, Mr Coulson?” he asked.

Phil took a deep breath and a drink of his scotch to calm his own nerves.  “I’m afraid it pertains to a rather delicate subject…” he began.

“You mean it’s about my alibi,” Barnes said, tensing even further.

“Yes,” Phil answered levelly, noting the way Barnes’ grip was white-knuckled on his glass and his gaze had flickered towards the door.  “I’m not with Scotland Yard anymore, Sergeant,” he said, changing tactics slightly.  “And that gives me a particular advantage.”

“Oh?  And what advantage would this be exactly?” Barnes asked, but he both sounded and looked more at ease.

“Discretion,” Phil said.  “I can promise you, Sergeant, that nothing you say will ever leave this room.”

“And should I just trust you on that?” Barnes asked, his pale blue eyes piercing as they looked at Phil.

“That is entirely up to you,” Phil told him quietly.  “I am a man of my word, but it is your choice whether you believe me or not.”

Barnes let out a long breath, most of his wariness leaving him.  “You are one in a million, Coulson,” he said, finally relaxing into his chair and taking a drink of his scotch.  “Well-dressed, good-looking and honest.  I’ve always had a weakness for the honest ones.”

“I… pardon?” Phil blinked.

“We both know the truth of it, Detective,” Barnes said, glancing at his glass for a moment.  “It’s why you asked me here.”  Those pale blue eyes looked up and caught Phil’s.  “Although, I have to ask: what was it that gave me away?  Was it solely because I refused to tell you who I spent the night with as my alibi or did you catch me checking you out at the bar?”

Phil blinked again.  “You were checking me out at the bar?” he said before he could stop himself.

Barnes gave a rough chuckle.  “Yeah, I was,” he said.  “I can’t help myself when it comes to handsome, honest men.”

The look in Barnes’ eyes was undeniably an invitation and Phil found himself flushing slightly as a result.  “I’m old enough to be your father!” he protested.

Barnes chuckled again.  “So you _are_ gay,” he said, eyeing Phil over the glass.  “I wondered.  You’re a very hard man to read, Coulson.”

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes and took another drink of scotch.  “The only reason you refused to give me the name of the person who was your alibi was because the person you spent the night with was a man, is that correct?” he asked in an attempt to get the conversation back on the path Phil had intended.

“Yes,” Barnes agreed, only a slight clenching of his jaw proving how unused he was to talking about it.  “I can give you his name, but I doubt he’ll be willing to talk to you.”

With a final assessing look at Barnes, Phil shook his head.  He couldn’t sense any other deception coming from the man and mentally crossed him off the list of murder suspects.  “That won’t be necessary, Sergeant,” he said.  “Thank you.”

Barnes flashed him a smirk and finished off the last of his scotch.  For a moment, Phil thought he was going to make his excuses and leave, but the sergeant seemed to hesitate.  “Since you already know my secret, I guess I should tell you something else,” Barnes said.  “You might want to be careful of Clint Barton.  I don’t think he’s everything he claims to be.”

“Oh?” Phil said, attempting to pretend his heart wasn’t suddenly trying to pound its way out of his chest.

“I don’t think he’s Natasha Romanoff’s lover at all,” Barnes said.  “I saw him out the other night and the company he was enjoying wasn’t exactly female, if you know what I mean.”

Phil blinked, having not expected at all.  He tried to ignore the way his heart lurched at Barnes’ words.  “I just think Barton and Romanoff are up to something, that’s all,” Barnes added.

“Thank you for telling me, Sergeant,” Phil said, rising to his feet when Barnes did.

“Thank you for the drink, Detective,” Barnes replied with a smirk.  “Feel free to join me for another any time you like.”

Phil tried not to blush at the blatant flirting as he walked Barnes to the door.  “Have a good evening, Detective,” Barnes said with a wink.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” Phil replied.

Shutting the door, Phil walked back into the front sitting room and froze dead in his tracks.  Clint Barton was leaning casually against the doorframe leading from the kitchen, his arms folded over his broad chest.  His presence was so sudden and unexpected that Phil felt his curse freeze in his throat.  Unlike the last time Phil had seen him, Clint looked disreputable and a little dishonest.  Yet, even as mussed as he was, Phil couldn’t help but notice how good he looked.  His black trousers were clearly tailored to not be too loose and he’d tucked them into a pair of long black socks for easier movement so they resembled a pair of plus-fours.  His shirt was open at the collar, his tie absent and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows.  Even his waistcoat was unbuttoned, no doubt to make it easier to enter Phil’s apartment by unconventional means.  Phil was certain he hadn’t come in through the front door, although Phil noticed he’d slung a jacket over one of the nearby chairs.  A lock of Clint’s dark blond hair had fallen over his forehead and there was a glint in his eyes that Phil could only describe as anger.

“That was an interesting conversation you had with Sergeant Barnes, Detective,” Clint drawled.

“I don’t believe I invited you, Mr Barton,” Phil replied frostily, his own anger growing and his heart clenching with the realisation that Clint had probably heard _everything_ he and Sergeant Barnes had been talking about.

Including Phil’s dirty secret.

*~*


	10. The Clues Come Together

“And here I thought we were partners,” Clint drawled mockingly as he pushed himself away from the wall.  As irritated as Clint had been about Phil keeping things from him, he was downright angry to discover the extent of it.  Worse, however, had been the surge of jealousy that had flooded through him at the way Barnes had been blatantly flirting with Phil and Clint had barely stopped himself from bursting into the room to interrupt them.

“We _are_ partners,” Phil countered, starting to look irritated.

“Then when were you going to tell me about meeting Sergeant Barnes?” Clint asked.  “Or tell me what’s so important about the fact that both Dr Banner and Miss Carter spent time in the same region of India recently?”

This wasn’t how Clint had imagined this going.  He’d definitely thought he’d act more like a rational adult about everything, but Natasha had been right; he _trusted_ Phil more than he’d trusted anyone except Natasha in a very long time and despite how familiar he was with it, betrayal, no matter how small, still stung.  Somehow, he’d let Phil get under his skin, deep enough to make a home there and now he was paying for it.

“Tonight,” Phil said, his voice cutting across Clint’s swirling thoughts.  “I was going to tell you tonight.  I was hoping I’d be able to catch both you and Natasha before dinner.”

“You were?” Clint asked, his anger derailed by the honesty of Phil’s words.

“Yes, I was,” he replied firmly.

Clint felt something dark twist his lips.  “Yet I wasn’t allowed to sit in on your conversation with Sergeant Barnes?”

In front of him, Phil actually closed his eyes for a moment and ran his hand over his face, looking as agitated and unsettled as Clint had ever seen him.  Clint wasn’t sure he liked the detective appearing quite so vulnerable.  As Clint watched, Phil straightened his shoulders and settled that calm, implacable mask back over his features.  “I’m not going to do either of us the disservice of pretending that you didn’t overhear out entire conversation,” Phil said levelly.  “Sharing something private like that, particularly with the legal implications, isn’t easy.  I’d hoped with our common situation, Sergeant Barnes would open up to me.  I wasn’t sure what would happen if I added anyone else into that conversation.”

Clint nodded, but he wasn’t stupid.  He could read between the lines.  “And you didn’t trust me enough,” he said.

“It’s the deepest and most private secret I have, Clint,” Phil replied softly, his eyes vulnerable and filled with pain.  “I haven’t trusted _anyone_ enough to share it in a very long time.”

That, Clint could definitely understand.  For a moment, he wondered what it would feel like to be as alone as Phil seemed to be, without anyone to rely on.  Clint’s past might have been shitty, but at least he had Natasha to lean on when he needed to.  It sounded pretty achingly lonely not to have that and as soon as that thought struck Clint, he knew what he had to do.  “I was born in Iowa, in the United States,” he began, ignoring the way Phil turned to him in surprise for now.  “It was a pretty shitty childhood and it didn’t get much better when my brother and I were shipped off to England after our parents died.”

He paused, risking a glance at Phil, only to find the detective frozen and listening raptly.  “I think she was a great aunt or something, but she didn’t exactly want two young boys running underfoot,” he continued.  “So Barney and I did what most boys dream of doing… we ran away and joined a travelling circus.”

Clint had to smirk at Phil’s incredulously raised eyebrow.  “I’m not joking.  We really did,” he said.  “We rode those circus trains for years.  It’s how I ended up in Russia and met Tasha, actually.”  Clint felt his expression sober.  “I might know one of your secrets, Phil, but now you know one of mine too,” he said seriously.  “I’m not the Russian royalty I’m rumoured to be.  I’m just a poor kid from Iowa who got really lucky.”

“Clint, I…” Phil said, trailing off and seemingly at a loss for words.

Clint shrugged.  “You shouldn’t be ashamed, you know,” he told Phil.  “What Sergeant Barnes said was true – I’m not Tasha’s lover and I never have been.  She’s family.  Probably the only family I’ve got.”  He paused long enough to smirk at Phil.  “He’s right about the rest of it, too.  I take men to bed as often as I do women and I enjoy every one of them.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Phil said quietly.  “It’s just a dangerous secret for people to know, considering its illegal.”

“Well, I guess you’re just going to have to trust me with it,” Clint said.

Phil gave him a level, assessing look.  “Something tells me I shouldn’t have hesitated in the first place,” he said.

Clint tried to ignore how the words sent something warm blossoming through his chest.  It mixed in with the bolt of lust that went down Clint’s spine at being subjected to the piercing, intent stare of those blue-grey eyes and in that moment, Clint wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them and pull Phil in for a kiss and from the way Phil couldn’t quite stop looking at him, Clint didn’t think Phil would object all that much if he did.  “Just so we’re on the same page, there’s something else I want to share with you before you distract me with talk about our suspects and the murder case,” he said.

His voice was a little hoarser than usual, but Clint made no effort to disguise it as he sauntered across the sitting room over to where Phil stood.  He stopped close enough to Phil that he was inside his personal space, but not close enough that they were touching.  The urge was there, but Clint resisted for the moment.  “I want to take you to bed, Detective.  I think I have since about ten minutes after I first saw you,” Clint said, watching as Phil’s eyes darkened.  “So fair warning, but now that I know your secret, I might not be able to keep my hands off you.”

Phil attempted to clear his throat, but he seemed unable to tear his eyes away from Clint’s.  He looked completely stunned by Clint’s words and when Clint finally looked downward, he caught sight of the way Phil’s pulse was fluttering in his throat.  Clint wanted nothing more than to lean down and fix his mouth over the point and taste Phil’s skin, but if he did that, he didn’t think he would be able to stop.  He leant even further into Phil’s personal space, as if drawn by a magnet and unable to resist.  This close to Phil, he could smell the faint, clean scent of Phil’s skin and see the faded, silvery scar that ran along Phil’s jaw.  Clint was gripped by the almost overwhelming urge to fall into Phil’s warm strength and taste, but he resisted – barely.  “We, ah… if you want to talk about the case, we should probably do it now,” Clint said, clearing his throat.

“I, ah… yes.  The case.  Definitely,” Phil agreed, blinking a little, but before Clint could completely pull away, he felt Phil’s hands fist in the sides of his still unbuttoned waistcoat and yank him forward until he was pressed against Phil’s warm chest.  Clint could feel the surprisingly firm muscle beneath the suit and his breathing hitched at the sensation.  “Just one thing first…” Phil added.

Clint had a moment to marvel at how Phil’s grey-blue eyes had filled with heat, before Phil’s lips were covering his.  The kiss was deep and hungry and a little bit rough, which is not how Clint had imagined a gentleman detective would kiss at all.  Pushing forward, Clint curled a hand around Phil’s neck as he pressed the other man back against a nearby bookcase.  Phil gave a breathy moan that was almost the undoing of all of Clint’s good intentions as Clint pressed his whole body into Phil’s.

Eventually, Clint pulled back with a curse.  “You, Detective,” he said, fighting to catch his breath, “do not fight fair.”

“You,” Phil replied, leaning forward to nip at Clint’s bottom lip, “started it.”

Clint groaned, because Phil looked damned irresistible with his eyes hooded and dark and a flush on his cheeks, his tie loosened somehow and looking as rumpled as Clint had ever seen him thanks to Clint’s own hands.  As far as Clint was concerned, right now the case could go hang.  He leaned in for another kiss, before freezing as a strange sound pierced his fog-filled mind.  “What’s that?” he asked.

“What?  There’s…” Phil growled, before he broke off on a groan.  It wasn’t one of the good ones either, but a sound filled with frustration.  “That’s coming from my study,” he said.

A bad feeling curled through Clint’s stomach.  He heard the sound of a soft grunt and automatically slipped a hand under his clothes to rest of the hilt of one of his hidden throwing knives.  Silently, he followed Phil as they crept towards his study, the soft sounds of someone inside the room getting louder the closer they got.  Pausing beside the half open door, Clint glanced towards Phil to see what the detective wanted to do, only to find Phil scowling and straightening, as if intending to walk right into the study.  Clint felt his eyes widen, but before he could reach out and grab Phil, the other man had already pushed open the study door.  “Excuse me…” Phil began.

Clint registered the scene in an instant before he moved.  Inside the study, a black-clad man had been bent over the desk rifling through Phil’s notebooks and papers and at Phil’s sudden appearance in the doorway had reached behind him.  The fluid movement was a familiar one to Clint and he’d acted before he’d really thought about it, surging up to grab Phil by the waist and sending them both crashing to the floor to the side of the door.  Above them, a knife thudded into the wall just behind where Phil had been standing.

The impact forced the air from Clint’s lungs, distracting him for a moment, before he scrambled to his feet and drew his own knife.  Bursting into the study, Clint cursed loudly when he saw that the intruder had used his and Phil’s momentary distraction to flee through the now open window.  Taking a moment to breath, his heart still pounding from the attack, Clint slipped his knife back under his shirt before he walked to the window and peered out.  As he’d suspected, the intruder was already long gone, despite Phil’s apartment being on the fourth floor of the building.

“Thank you,” Phil said a little breathlessly from where he was now leaning against the doorway when Clint turned around to face the other man.

“Don’t mention it,” Clint replied, before he arched a pointed eyebrow at the detective.  “Just next time, you might want to confront the intruder in your study with a weapon, not your manners.”

Phil smiled a little sheepishly in reply.  When Clint moved to pass him and head back to the sitting room, he caught another breath of Phil’s clean scent and found himself reminded of the kiss they’d shared before they’d been interrupted.  He breathed in shakily, unable to break Phil’s gaze and had to fight back the urge to press Phil up against the doorway and kiss him again.  As much as he wanted too, however, Clint knew that they had a lot of things to talk about and Phil’s keen sense of duty probably wouldn’t allow any more distractions from the case.  It was faintly disappointing because Clint would have liked nothing more than to follow Natasha’s advice and take Phil to bed, but he did respect Phil’s restraint.  He’d also abide by it in a way he never would have before; Phil was more than worth the wait.

Walking back to the sitting room, Clint watched Phil head directly to the glass of scotch he’d left by his chair when he’d gone to see Barnes to the door and downed it in one swallow.  The action did absolutely nothing for Clint’s ability to focus on the case and he had to blink to clear his head as Phil walked over to the sideboard.  “Would you like a drink?” Phil asked.

“Please,” Clint replied.

With careful movements, Phil poured Clint a glass of scotch and refilled his own glass.  He turned and for a long moment, they did nothing but look at each other without moving.  Phil’s expression made it look as if he wanted to ask Clint something, but wasn’t sure how to go about it or if now was a good time.  The detective seemed to shake off the thoughts a moment later and gestured for Clint to take a seat if he wanted, before placing his glass of scotch on the coffee table in the middle of the room.  It didn’t escape Clint’s notice that Phil made sure not to get too close to him and if it hadn’t been for the thick tension underlying everything, he would have taken it as a bad sign.

Clint settled carefully onto the sofa and took his own healthy swallow of scotch.  Phil settled a little uneasily next to him and Clint was struck by the sudden urge to reach over to him and try and smooth the uneasiness away.  The urge to comfort was almost as strange as the urge to wait for Phil instead of losing interest and Clint wondered if this was a sign of him finally growing up.  He rather suspected it had a more tangled and emotional cause, but he wasn’t really sure he was ready to contemplate how far and deep he was falling for the detective.

“So, do we have any idea who that was?” Clint asked, breaking the silence.

“My guess would be a low-level Triad thug,” Phil said levelly.  “From the Ten Rings gang if I recognised the wrist tattoo correctly.”

“Triad?” Clint echoed, feeling his eye widen a little; he wasn’t sure what shocked him more, the way that the Triad were involved in the case or the fact that Phil could recognise individual gangs.

“I worked a couple of smuggling cases on the docks for Scotland Yard,” Phil explained, clearly seeing Clint’s surprise.  “The Triad run at least half of that part of the city.”

For a moment, Clint was impressed.  Phil was clearly a lot tougher than he looked if he was handling those kinds of cases.  Then a thought struck him.  “The thugs in the alley who attacked Stane were Ten Rings too, weren’t they?” he said.

“Yes,” Phil said quietly.  “They were.”

Clint let out a sigh.  “The Triad,” he said and cursed.  “Stane is doing business with the _wrong_ people.”  Clint had made it a point in his life to avoid anything with even a hint of being involved with Triad because he knew how nasty those guys could get.  If Stane was voluntarily doing business with them, he was either very brave, or very stupid.  “So…” he said after a minute, glancing up to watch Phil over the rim of his glass.  “What exactly is the significance of India?”

“I don’t know if Natasha has told you, but the Blue Star Diamond is rumoured to have once been the right eye of an idol of Vishnu in a sacred temple in Sriangam, India.  A temple that is located in the Madras province,” Phil explained and suddenly things began to slot together in Clint’s mind.  “Combine that with the fact that it was actually Tony Stark who sent me the unsigned dinner invitation the night of Miss Everhart’s murder because he suspected Dr Banner was planning something illegal and that according to Miss Potts, Dr Banner went to a great deal of effort to pretend not to know Miss Carter… Well, I think you can see the implication.”

Clint could.  “So what are you going to do about it?” he asked.

“That’s the more important question,” Phil said, taking another drink of scotch, “and I really don’t know the answer.”

For a long moment, Clint watched Phil as the other man stared into the remains of his glass of scotch, his emotions strangely apparent in his expression.  Clint had been certain that Phil couldn’t have captivated him any more than he already had, but Clint had been so wrong.  Phil was clearly debating whether or not he was going to tell Sitwell and therefore Scotland Yard what he had figured out about the theft of the Blue Star Diamond and Clint couldn’t help but feel something broken within his chest heal a little.  Phil was a good and honest man and for a dizzying, heart-lurching moment, Clint found it hard to deny that he was falling in love with Phil Coulson without the other man needing to say a word.  He could almost hear Natasha laughing herself stupid about it already.

However, judging by the soft look in Phil’s eyes as the detective watched him, Clint realised he might not be the only one.

*~*

Phil watched the thoughtful expression that crossed Clint’s face.  He wasn’t sure what the other man was thinking, but when Clint glanced up, the expression in those blue eyes almost took Phil’s breath away.  It was soft and vulnerable in a way Phil didn’t think he’d seen before and it made Phil ache to reach out and pull the other man into his arms.  Phil resolutely ignored the urge to follow through with his thought and feel that compactly muscles chest against his again, because that would lead to more kissing and Phil had a few things he needed to explain first.  It didn’t stop the way his heart tripped over a beat though, because the truth was no one had ever quite looked at Phil like that.

“What about the murderer?” Clint asked, clearing his throat a little.

“That’s where things get significantly complicated,” Phil said with a sigh.

Complicated was beginning to feel like an understatement, but when Clint’s expression turned thoughtful again, Phil knew he was defenceless when it came to Clint Barton, because he wanted nothing more than to reach out and smooth the frown lines that appeared on Clint’s face.  “What about Stane?” Clint asked.  “He was clearly lying about the telephone call that was his alibi for his fiancé’s murder and he also has a motive.  Not to mention, if he’s doing business with the Triad, we know he’s unscrupulous.”

“He is the obvious suspect,” Phil agreed.

Clint smirked as he put down his now-empty glass.  “But you don’t think he did it,” Clint finished for him.

“No, I don’t,” Phil replied.  “I think the reason he set up an alibi was not because of the murder, but so he could sneak out and meet his Triad contact for a business deal.”

“I know a business deal with a Triad gang isn’t exactly legal, but after midnight?  Why…” Clint said with a frown, before trailing off.  Then his head snapped up and he looked at Phil with wide blue eyes.  “Holy shit,” he said.  “You think Stane is using the Ten Rings to _kidnap Stark_.”

Phil nodded gravely.  “Although I suspect it’s not just kidnapping,” he said.  “If Stark dies, as sole remaining business partner, Obadiah Stane would gain complete control over Stark Industries.”

“That’s _cold_ ,” Clint said, his eyes filled with equal parts anger and the haunting pain of old demons.  “Stark is his _godson_.”

Knowing a little about Clint’s past, Phil could only guess what thoughts were running through the other man’s mind.  Unsure whether it would be welcomed despite the fact that they’d kissed, Phil nevertheless reached out and put his hand on Clint’s shoulder at an attempt at reassurance.  Clint almost sagged into the touch and before Phil could really register what he was doing, he’d curled a hand around Clint’s neck and pulled him close enough so he could lean against Phil.  “So how do we prove it?” Clint asked softly.

“We don’t have to prove it,” Phil told him.  “We just have to get him to admit it somewhere Detective Inspector Sitwell can hear him.”

Clint leaned back enough to raise a sarcastic eyebrow at him.  “Oh, yes, because it’s that easy,” he drawled.

Phil felt the corner of his mouth turn up in a faint smirk.  “Stane has an ego the size of England,” he said dryly.  “Somehow, I think we can goad him into it.”

With a rough chuckle, Clint pulled away and moved to the sideboard to pour himself another drink.  “So if Stane isn’t our murderer, who is?” he said, clearly thinking out loud.  “If Hammer’s blackmail note is to be believed, the murderer is hiding a secret past linked to Christine Everhart’s mother.  Otherwise Hammer probably wouldn’t have had the photograph.  That would rule out Peggy Carter, Barnes and Rogers, because they’re all too young.”

Phil nodded.  “I had the same thought,” he agreed, gratefully accepting the refilled glass of scotch Clint offered him and didn’t move away when Clint settled back down right next to him on the sofa, Clint’s arm brushing his every time they moved.

“Maybe we’ve been thinking about this the wrong way,” Clint said suddenly.

“What do you mean?” Phil asked.

“I mean,” Clint said, “maybe we shouldn’t be trying to figure out who wanted to kill Christine Everhart and Justin Hammer, but instead figure out who has the most to lose if someone can prove they have a hidden past?”  Clint paused and smirked at Phil, his blue eyes bright.  “Such as, say… a Minister of Parliament?”

“Stern?” Phil said in surprise, before his lips curved into a small, but genuine smile.  He hadn’t even thought of that and yet it made perfect sense.  Even Sitwell hadn’t been able to verify Sir John’s alibi; he might have returned to his home at eleven in the evening the night Miss Everhart was killed, but none of his staff had set eyes on him before breakfast.  Then Phil blinked, because that wasn’t entirely true.

“Out of everything that’s happened, we haven’t even questioned his presence.  Everything we’ve talked about has been about everyone but Stern.  Yet, Stern was having dinner with Hammer the night Christine Everhart was killed,” Clint said, arching an eyebrow in Phil’s direction.  “If Miss Everhart was helping Hammer blackmail him, it would explain why she would let him into her suite too.  And if he does have a secret he’s willing to kill for, as a Minister of Parliament, he’d lose everything if it came out.”

Phil nodded.  It made sense.  And Lieutenant Rogers did say he overheard him arguing with Dr Banner on the night of Miss Everhart’s murder,” he said.  “However, we cannot prove more than the fact Stern was at the hotel when he said he wasn’t.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Clint replied with a smirk.

“What are you planning?” Phil asked, immediately suspicious.

Clint’s smirk just widened.  “Not what.   _Who_.”

Phil huffed out a laugh.  “Natasha,” he said.

“Natasha,” Clint grinned.

*~*


	11. Murderous Mayhem Revealed

_The Savoy Hotel, London, June 20th, 1934_

“So, Tash, did you enjoy your evening of illicit theft?” Clint asked with a grin.

Natasha rolled her eyes at him, but the smirk curving the corner of her mouth proved the answer to Clint’s questions was a definite _yes_.  As always, Natasha led the way into her sitting room with the ever-present silver pot of coffee and Clint followed her, still grinning.  However, instead of heading straight for her usual seat and pouring the coffee, Natasha walked over to a small side table and carefully picked up a handful of documents.

“For an MP, Stern isn’t very creative with his hiding places,” Natasha said.  “He’s also not very creative about other things.  He’s French and his real name is Jean.”

Clint snorted as he looked down at the photograph on top of the documents Natasha had handed him.  Christine Everhart’s mother was arm in arm with another man who Clint presumed was her husband and clearly recognisable next to them in the photograph was a very young looking John Stern.  Clint flipped over the photograph in case there was a date or place written on the back and almost smirked when he found it.  “Charles, Amelia and Jean-Baptiste, Paris, 1914,” he read aloud.

“Charles Everhart, Christine Everhart’s father, was Ambassador to Paris before the War,” Natasha said as she gracefully took a seat and began pouring them both a cup of coffee.  “And thanks to his connections in the government, Charles was able to bring a young Jean-Baptiste Beaumont back with the family when they returned to England.  A position Jean-Baptiste used well.”

His eyes widening, Clint looked at Natasha.  “You think Stern used his position with the family to slip information back to France during the War?” he said.  “You think he was a _spy_?”

Natasha shrugged eloquently.  “It would explain why Jean-Baptiste Beaumont is now Sir John Stern,” she said.  “I would show those to Phil first, however.  There are some very interesting rumours about what our dear detective did during the War himself.  If Stern is or was a spy, he wouldn’t be the first one Phillip Coulson has caught.”

The information sent Clint reeling.  Not just the fact that Stern could be a spy, but that there was a lot more to Phil than he showed the world.  Clint knew Phil was dangerous, but the possibility than he’d hunted spies during the War helped explain why.  “That’s…” Clint began, trailing off when he saw the smirk Natasha wasn’t even trying to hide behind her cup.

“Speaking of the good detective,” she said, her green eyes dancing.  “How _is_ Phil this morning?”

Clint suppressed a scowl as he sprawled across his usual chair and took a drink of his own coffee.  “I wouldn’t know,” he said.

Natasha arched a sceptical eyebrow.  “So you’re telling me that you and Phil were all alone in his apartment last night and _nothing_ happened?”

Clint could feel a faint smile curving his lips as he remembered the night before.  He could still feel the way Phil’s solid weight had pressed him against the sofa as he’d kissed him.  “Oh, _something_ definitely happened,” Natasha said, breaking into Clint’s happy memories.

“You could say that,” Clint smirked, before he settled back and told her everything that had happened, including the intruder in Phil’s office.

Natasha pursed her lips a little, her eyes running over Clint as if to prove he was as uninjured as he claimed to be.  Then she looked back up into his eyes and arched another eyebrow, humour and mischief re-entering her gaze.  “Are you telling me, Clint Barton, that even after saving his life, you still returned and spent the night in your rooms _here_ instead of taking that man to bed?”

“Yes,” Clint replied.  “I’m endeavouring to be a gentleman.”

Natasha’s eyebrows rose and her eyes widened.  “You’re _in love_ with him!” she accused.

“Tasha…” Clint began, before he stopped and scowled.  “And?  So what if I am?” he asked.  He couldn’t really deny it; somewhere between first seeing Phil and their goodnight kiss last night, Clint _had_ fallen in love with the detective.  He vaguely realised his heart was pounding against his ribs, both from his confession and Natasha’s reaction.

“Oh, Clint, no,” Natasha’s soft voice said, full of apology.  He looked up to find her perched on the arm of his chair.  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she continued, reaching out to cup his cheek with her hand.  “It’s just been the two of us against the world for so long…”

Clint appreciated the way she didn’t also point out how every single one of Clint’s past attempts at love and relationships had ended in disaster.  Gently, he reached up to pull her hand away from his cheek and laced their fingers together.  “It will _always_ be you and me against the world, Tash.  This doesn’t change that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  “I don’t even know if he’d have me if he knew.”

“ _Of course_ he’d have you,” Natasha said, sniffing once and turning bright eyes away from Clint.  “Don’t be stupid.”

Clint smiled and let her pull away; Natasha hated people seeing her close to genuine tears, even him.  “Come on, then,” he said, finishing the last of his coffee.  “Let’s go tell Phil what you found out about Stern.  I’d hate for us all to be late to the big reveal.”

*~*

“This is... very interesting,” Phil said, looking down at the photograph in his hands.

For the purposes of the case, Phil had borrowed the hotel manager’s office, hoping it would give him a little privacy.  Clint and Natasha had joined him, bringing with them the documents Natasha had found in her search of Stern’s house the night before.  As always, Natasha looked elegant and graceful, if not also a little bit predatory, in a slim black skirt and a silk blouse that only highlighted the red of her hair and lipstick.  However, as always, it was Clint that had caught Phil’s attention and kept it.  This morning, Clint’s grey suit and dark purple tie were impeccable and he looked every inch the fashionable and wealthy gentleman he was.  Phil had wanted nothing more than to yank him forward into a kiss from the first moment Phil had seen him.  From the glint in Clint’s sharp, blue eyes, Phil suspected he hadn’t been the only one.

“So Stern _was_ a spy?” Clint said, but the way he was half sitting on the corner of the desk casually smoking a cigarette wasn’t helping Phil’s focus in the slightest.

“Yes,” Phil said, clearing his throat a little.  “You were right, Natasha.”

Phil looked down at the documents again.  The photograph helped prove Stern had once gone by another name, but it was the other documents that were more worrying.  They didn’t show the complete extent, but they were enough to show that Stern had been using his position with the Everhart’s to send information back to pro-Germany supporters in France during the War.  Phil knew that sometime after the War, the young and dynamic John Stern had entered politics – which just so happened to occur after Charles Everhart had been tragically killed in an accident, leaving behind only his widow and a young daughter.

“Will it be enough?” Natasha asked.

With a faint smile, Phil nodded.  “It’s enough to prove that John Stern was once Jean-Baptiste Beaumont,” he said, “and there’s enough evidence to prove he had both motive and opportunity to murder Christine Everhart and Justin Hammer.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll be arrested for it,” Natasha replied and for a moment, Phil wondered which part of her life had taught her to be so sceptical.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed, “but Detective Inspector Sitwell is a good man and even if he wasn’t, he would need a _very_ good reason not to arrest Stern after he confesses.”

Clint, who was still half-sitting on the edge of the desk, snorted.  His blue eyes were filled with humour as they watched Phil, before he glanced over at Natasha.  “Our great detective believes he can wring a confession out of our dastardly perpetrators,” he teased.

Phil raised an eyebrow, but he couldn’t help the faint smile in response to Clint’s smirk.  “I have done this before, you know,” he said dryly.

His eyes still dancing with humour, Clint opened his mouth to reply, but Natasha’s sharp hiss from where she stood at the door cut off whatever he had been about to say.  “Our suspects are coming,” Natasha whispered.

Instantly sobering, Clint shifted as if he’d been about to walk over and join Natasha where she was now demurely sitting on the sofa that had been brought into the office, but Phil reached out a hand to stop him.  “You don’t have to,” he said quietly.  “You’re my associate after all, not a suspect.”

“Not even formally?” Clint asked, because for all that Phil _knew_ Natasha was innocent of all the crimes and was actually helping with the case, she would be sitting amongst the other suspects for the explanation.

“Not if you don’t want to be,” Phil replied.

Clint smirked and took a seat in the chair behind the desk, sprawling across it with his usual cat-like grace.  Phil had just taken his place standing beside Clint behind the desk when the first of their suspects walked in.  As usual, Peggy Carter was in the lead, dressed fashionably in long, loose pants and a patterned blouse under her jacket.  Steve Rogers and James Barnes followed her, hats in their hands and looking subdued.  “Oh, good, we haven’t missed anything,” Peggy said brightly.  “Good morning, Detective.”

Phil smiled, but the knowledge of what Peggy had done and what was coming sat heavily on his shoulders for a moment.  “Good morning, Miss Carter, Lieutenant Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,” he greeted.  “Thank you for joining us.”

As the three of them took their seats on the other sofa against the wall, Phil heard the arrival of the others.  “…don’t see why, Pepper…” Tony Stark said as they entered, an exasperated Pepper Potts following behind him, looking stunning in a dark blue dress.

“If I have to be here, Tony, then so do you,” Stane said loudly as he entered next, pushing ahead of Dr Banner.  “You can put off whatever ridiculous travel plans you have for a few hours.”

“I’m sure Detective Coulson won’t be keeping us that long,” Sir John Stern said in an oily tone, bringing up the rear with one of his false smiles fixed on his face.

Phil just smiled politely and waited for everyone to take a seat.  Just behind Stern, the front desk clerk popped his head through the doorway and nodded once.  Phil nodded back and the clerk disappeared, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.  “Thank you all for coming,” Phil said, turning his attention back to the assembled guests.

“So why are we here?” Stark demanded from his seat in the middle of the room.

“That is a complicated question, Mr Stark,” Phil answered, “but simply put, you’re here to help me catch a murderer.”

Phil noticed the way Stark tensed in his chair.  “But not a thief?” Stark said.

“Oh, we have one of those too,” Clint drawled from his chair.  “There are a lot of guilty people in this room.”

“And who exactly are you?” Stern demanded disdainfully.

“Mr Barton has been working as my associate in solving this case,” Phil said firmly.  He paused for a moment, eyeing everyone gathered; Stark was shooting worried looks at Dr Banner, while Stane had tensed and Stern looked like he was trying to hide a sudden flash of  anger.  Off to the side, Natasha was smirking faintly and had settled back as if to enjoy the show.  Phil had to bite back a smirk of his own in reply.

“Perhaps it would be best to start at the beginning,” Phil continued.  “As you all know, four days ago, Miss Christine Everhart was murdered at this very hotel and the famous Blue Star Diamond was stolen.  Both crimes were committed only hours after everyone in this room dined in the main dining room.”

“Are you accusing one of us of being the murderer, Detective?” Lieutenant Rogers said, his whole body tensing where he sat.

“I’m more interested in the fact that our dear Detective said _both_ crimes,” Tony Stark broke in, managing to sound both concerned and mocking, his brown eyes intent on Phil.

Phil met Stark’s intense gaze without flinching.  “I don’t believe the murderer and the thief are the same person.  Nor do I believe the crimes are connected,” Phil said, before he shifted his gaze towards Lieutenant Rogers.  “What I do know, however, is that everyone in this room had an opportunity to commit either crime.”

He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in.  He could see the anger in Obadiah Stane’s face and the way Stark was about to open his mouth to speak out of the corner of his eye, but Phil’s gaze never left Rogers.  “Even you, Lieutenant Rogers,” he added before either Stane or Stark could interrupt.

Rogers frowned, while next to him Phil saw Peggy’s expression turn furious.  “You can’t think Steve had anything to do with this!” she said.

“He had the opportunity,” Phil pointed out mildly.  “Just like you did, Miss Carter.  By your own accounts, Lieutenant Rogers accompanied you to your room just before midnight, where you bid each other goodnight.  After that, either of you could have slipped back out of your rooms and gone to Miss Everhart’s.”

His words caused both Peggy and Rogers to fall silent, even though Phil had been careful not to mention the theft.  He didn’t want to put Peggy on her guard and he still wasn’t certain he wanted to confront her in front of everyone, but he suspected that if he didn’t, she would just find another way to steal the diamond back again later.  Phil didn’t really want to hurt the daughter of his old friend like that, but the fact remained that she _had_ committed a crime.  His eyes slid towards Dr Banner as well, but the doctor seemed relaxed and unconcerned as he patiently sat beside Pepper Potts.

“Steve isn’t a murderer,” Peggy insisted in a cold voice.

“No, I do not believe he is,” Phil agreed.

“Well, that little diversion was fun, but can we get to the point of why we’re all here?” Stane interjected, his tone arrogant.  “Like the fact that I _do_ have an alibi?”

Phil fixed the industrialist with a sharp look.  “Of course, Mr Stane,” he said.  “You were working at the London offices of Stark Industries until you left for Paris the following morning, is that not correct?”

“Yes,” Stane answered.  “I resent you implying otherwise.”

“I don’t imply, Mr Stane,” Phil replied.  “I _know_.”

“And what exactly does that mean?” Stane asked with narrowed eyes.

“It means, Mr Stane,” Phil said, “that I deal in facts, not rumour.  Such as the fact that Miss Christine Everhart was your fiancé, was she not?”

“Now listen here...” Stane said loudly, his temper rising.

“There is also the fact that two days ago,” Phil continued unrelentingly as Stane trailed off, “Justin Hammer was also murdered at this hotel.  A man whose company is not only a rival to Stark Industries, Mr Stane, but who also turns about to be the lover of your recently murdered fiancé.”

Phil’s words prompted gasps around the room and he noted the way Stark frowned in confusion and Pepper Potts paled a little.  Stane’s face, however, never shifted from stony anger.  Stane’s reaction to Miss Everhart’s murder had never been what Phil had expected from a man who had just lost the woman he was going to marry.  Stane had never actually shown an outward sign of grief at her death.  Now that Phil knew Stane was the sort of man willing to have his own _godson_ kidnapped and murdered, his callous disrespect was less surprising.  Phil clenched his jaw as he returned Stane’s furious glare.

“Are you calling me a murderer?” Stane growled, twitching in his chair as if he wanted to surge to his feet.  “Even when you’ve said it yourself that I have an alibi?”

Calmly, Phil raised an eyebrow in Stane’s direction.  “Yes, your alibi.  You were in your office on the other side of London, conducting an important telephone call at the time of Miss Everhart’s murder,” Phil said mildly.  “Except, of course... that you weren’t.”

“I...” Stane began angrily, half rising to his feet.

“Sit down, Mr Stane,” Phil told him, his tone cold.

Phil turned his back on Stane dismissively, his eyes meeting Clint’s.  Clint was smirking at him, his sharp blue eyes dancing as he handed Phil the envelope he’d turned around to look for.  Phil allowed himself a faint smirk in reply, before schooling his features back into an impassive mask as he returned his attention to Stane.  “Records from the telephone exchange show that the only telephone call made from your office that night lasted for only ten minutes and ended well before the time Miss Everhart was murdered,” he said, holding the envelope aloft.  “Not quite an alibi after all, Mr Stane.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Stark interrupted, clearly unable to keep silent any longer as he looked between Phil and Stane.  “What exactly are you trying to say, Detective?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Stane snarled.

“It gives you both motive and opportunity, Mr Stane,” Phil countered.

Stane looked incensed.  “I _did not_ kill Christine!” he shouted.

Phil placed the envelope back on the desk and arched an eyebrow in Stane’s direction as Clint gave a loud snort.  “Because it’s not suspicious _at all_ that you made sure to call in a secretary and make sure she believed you were in your office before you snuck out in the dead of the night,” Clint drawled.

“Wait a minute..!” Stark started angrily.

“What I was doing is none of your business,” Stane broke in, coldly furious and his eyes narrowed dangerously at Phil.

“Actually,” Phil said mildly.  “Since you’re guilty, it _is_ my business.”

Leaning back in his chair rather abruptly, Stane feigned a relaxed posture and smiled insincerely at Phil.  “And what exactly am I guilty of, Detective?” he asked.

Phil took a surreptitious deep breath.  This was the difficult part - getting Stane to admit to what he had been up to that night.  “Lying, for one,” Phil told him, not pulling any of his verbal punches.  “You were not in your office when you said you were.  There is very little standing between you and the hangman right now, Mr Stane.  You have both motive and opportunity for both murders and frankly, Scotland Yard could arrest you right now.”

“Except _I didn’t do it_!” Stane snapped.

“Then I suppose you won’t mind telling me where you were instead of being in your office?” Phil said with his blandest expression.

He spotted the moment Stane realised he was caught.  He could either admit to where he had been that night, or risk being arrested for two murders he had not committed and sent to the hangman.  There was a devious light in Stane’s eyes that Phil did not trust, but Phil still had the blackmail note if it came to it.  Phil was not about to let Obadiah Stane get away with what he’d planned.  “You’re right,” Stane conceded, his tone aiming for apologetic, but Phil could hear the thread of anger underneath.  “I wasn’t in my office.  I had a meeting with a business associate who is rather... unique to deal with.”

“Yes,” Phil agreed dryly.  “The Triad are difficult to deal with, aren’t they?”

Phil had to admit it was rather pleasing to see the momentary surprise in Stane’s eyes; however, the shock in Tony Stark’s eyes made Phil wish he could avoid what was coming.  “The _Triad_?” Stark said.  “What are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing, Tony, don’t worry about it,” Stane said.

“ _Really_?” Clint said, still sprawled casually behind the desk, his sharp eyes gazing straight at Stane.  “I would have thought information Justin Hammer was blackmailing you over would be slightly more than _nothing_.”

Phil watched Stane tense and his face pale.  “You have no proof of that,” Stane growled.

“We have the blackmail note,” Phil countered, although he carefully didn’t say that the note didn’t mention Stane by name.

Stane paled even further.  “You can’t prove I had anything to do with it!”

Beside him, Tony Stark looked at him sharply.  “Can’t prove you had anything to do with _what_ , Obadiah?” he asked.

Stane gave Stark a tense and clearly fake smile.  “Nothing, Tony,” he said.

Stark narrowed his eyes.  “It’s clearly not nothing,” he replied.

“I also wouldn’t be so sure we cannot prove your involvement, Mr Stane,” Phil added.  “Detective Inspector Sitwell has recently had some very interesting conversations with the two Triad thugs who attacked you in the alley.  Apparently, the Ten Rings gang doesn’t like the way you do business and has little problem in confessing what you’ve been up to.”

As Phil spoke, Stark’s face turned almost completely white and he reached out to grab Pepper Potts’ hand.  “It was _you_ ,” he said, sounding utterly betrayed.  For a moment, Phil regretted that this had had to occur in front of an audience.  “ _You_ were the one behind my kidnapping last year.  They said... they said someone I knew was behind it, but... _why_?”

Finally realising the pretense was useless, Stane straightened and his face morphed into a cold sneer.  “Why did I do it?” he said.  “Why do think, Tony?  For years, I had to pander to your father and his playboy ways, running his company with no recognition.  And then he died and gave _everything_ to you and I found myself having to do it all over again.  I’m sick of having to pretend that you’re not a disappointment.  Stark Industries should have been _mine_.”

The look of deep pain in Stark’s eyes had Phil’s stomach clenching and his temper flaring.  “No matter the sins of Tony Stark, you had absolutely _no right_ to arrange to have him _killed_ , Mr Stane,” Phil said, every word clipped and his tone icy.  “You are nothing more than a greedy, manipulative and cruel man who wanted something that was not yours to have.”

“He is also under arrest,” Sitwell said, stalking into the room with a swirl of his coat from where he had been listening just outside the door, three police sergeants behind him.

Phil hadn’t been entirely sure he would have been able to trick enough of a confession out of Stane, but he had arranged to have Sitwell outside the room all the same.  Thankfully, it had worked.  Unceremoniously, two of the police sergeants grabbed Stane and after handcuffing him, led him out of the room while he cursed loudly.  Stark watched him, his dark eyes full of a deep sense of hurt and betrayal and Phil knew this was not a wound that the industrialist would easily heal from.  Beside Stark, Pepper Potts had one of his hands tightly clenched between two of hers and she looked as devastated and betrayed as Stark did. Her expression was mirrored by Dr Banner, who was watching them both with an expression that made Phil think if the three had been alone, Dr Banner might have pulled Stark into a hug.

“He...” Stark said, his voice hoarse.  “I can’t believe it.”

“I’m afraid it’s true, Mr Stark,” Phil said gently.  “We have reason to believe he was also trying to organise another kidnapping attempt.”

Stark looked up and blinked at Phil.  “That’s why you warned me to be careful,” he said, realisation growing.  “You knew.”

Phil nodded.  “Yes, I did,” he said.  “I was hoping we would gain enough proof against him before he made another attempt and thankfully, we did.”

Stark smiled, but Phil could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.  “Then I guess I owe you thanks, Detective,” he said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Phil said dryly.  “The revelations haven’t finished.”

*~*

Clint watched the way Phil managed to effortlessly control the room.  Everyone present had their attention fixed on the detective and his quiet observations, even when Detective Inspector Sitwell had swept into the room and dramatically arrested Obadiah Stane.  Sitwell had now taken his place along the side of the room with the remaining police sergeant, carefully watching Phil as well.  Clint had to admit that the quiet surety in Phil’s manner was both mesmerising and attractive.  He didn’t need to raise his voice to make his point and it was easy to see the way those that were guilty of something had tensed, their eyes never straying from Phil as he moved.

“What happens now?” Lieutenant Rogers said finally, breaking the strained silence that had followed Stane as he’d been escorted out of the office.

“Yes, Coulson,” Sitwell said with the ghost of a smile.  “What next?”

Clint flicked his eyes towards Phil again and had to hide a smile as Phil sent Sitwell a faintly reproachful look.  When Phil’s gaze turned back to the people in the room, Clint tried to guess which of the gathered suspects Phil was going to question next.  Judging by the slowly building dramatics so far, he’d save the murderer for last, so Clint braced himself for Phil to start questioning Natasha; according to rumour and most of the conversations he’d overheard over the last few days, Natasha was still the number one suspect in the theft of the Blue Star Diamond.

“The Blue Star Diamond is a jewel famous across Europe,” Phil began, confirming Clint’s thoughts.  “It is also a jewel many people covet and if one listens to rumour, that brings to mind an obvious suspect.” He paused and Clint watched him turn to Natasha as if on cue.  “You returned to the hotel the evening of the theft around midnight, did you not, Miss Romanoff?”

“I did,” Natasha said, her expression showing nothing but calm and a trace of knowing humour.

“And is there anyone who can provide an alibi for you between midnight and one o’clock in the morning?” Phil continued.

Natasha kept her gaze even, but Clint could see the signs that she was trying to suppress a smirk.  “I’m afraid not, Detective,” she said.  “I was quite alone.”

“So by your own admission, you had the opportunity to steal Blue Star Diamond between the time you returned to the hotel and Miss Everhart’s murder?” Phil said.

“I did,” Natasha conceded gracefully, her calm expression never shifting.  “Unfortunately for you, Detective, I didn’t steal it.”

Clint caught the edge of Phil’s smile before he suppressed it.  “No, you didn’t,” he agreed.

“Wait a minute,” Stark interjected and when Clint turned to look at him, he could see the millionaire was looking focused, if still pale.  “Why are you so sure that the diamond was stolen _before_ Christine was murdered?  Why not after?  And why are you so sure the murderer didn’t just take it with them?”

“Simply put, because I do not believe those responsible for the theft of the diamond would be so callous as to ignore Miss Everhart’s body if she had already been dead when the theft occurred,” Phil answered him quietly.

“ _Those_ responsible?” Stark echoed sharply.

Clint couldn’t quite hold back his smirk when Phil abruptly changed the path of the conversation.  “Are you aware of the notorious history of the Blue Star Diamond, Mr Stark?” Phil asked.  “There is a story that says the diamond was once one of the eyes of an idol of Vishnu housed in the sacred temple in Srirangam, India.”

There was a moment of silence at Phil’s words and Clint did not miss the way Dr Banner tensed in his chair.  Nor did he miss the worried glance Stark sent in Banner’s direction.  “It’s not just a story,” Miss Carter said levelly, breaking the silence as she straightened on the sofa where she sat.  “It was stolen from the temple and it’s rightful owners.”

“A fact you learnt during your time in the Madras province of India, was it not, Miss Carter?” Phil asked and Clint could see the tension in his shoulders as he asked the question; Clint knew how much hated that he had to do this to the daughter of his old friend.

To her credit, Miss Carter didn’t deny it.  “I did,” she said.

“A fact you also shared with Dr Bruce Banner when you met him during your travels around the province,” Phil continued.

Clint saw Miss Carter take a deep breath and let it out, before sagging slightly with a rueful smile.  “Yes, Dr Banner and I did meet in India and we did talk about the rightful owners of the diamond.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Stark said, interrupting.  “Just because Bruce was in India...”

“It’s fine, Tony,” Dr Banner said quietly.  “We knew we probably wouldn’t get away with it.  We just had to try, you know?”

“Bruce..!” Sark said.

Dr Banner reached over and put a hand on Stark’s arm, which effectively stopped Stark’s protest.  Clint then watched as he shifted his gaze to Phil.  “I have to ask, Detective,” he said.  “How did you figure it out?”

Phil actually smiled at Dr Banner.  The smile was only small and tinged with regret, but it was genuine all the same.  “It was the little things, Doctor,” he said.  “I find it’s usually the little things that give someone away.  Miss Potts knew you met Miss Carter in India from what you’d already told her and she mentioned she found it odd that you never acknowledged that in public, despite the fact that you and Miss Carter had both attended some of the same parties.  Also, you were spotted outside your room when you were supposed to be asleep.  That was another clue.”

Dr Banner smiled sardonically.  “That would have done it,” he said.

“Peggy?” Lieutenant Rogers said, his eyes wide and a little shocked.  On Miss Carter’s other side, Sergeant Barnes looked equally surprised.

Miss Carter turned her rueful expression on her friend.  “It’s true,” she said.  “I guess there’s still a few things you don’t about me, Rogers.”

“Damn it, Bruce,” Stark swore.  “I knew you were up to something... I’m sorry, I...”

“It’s not your fault, Tony,” Dr Banner said.  “It was my choice, just like it was Peggy’s.”  He gave Stark a fond smile, before looking up at Sitwell.  “Now what happens?  Do we get arrested too?”

Phil looked over at Sitwell and they shared another look that Clint couldn’t quite decipher; not that he really needed to.  Clint already knew the deal Phil had made with the Detective Inspector.  “No, I’m not going to arrest you,” Sitwell said.  “And you can thank Coulson for that.  He pointed out that since Obadiah Stane has been arrested, ownership of the diamond can be argued to belong to Mr Stark.  Therefore, it is up to Mr Stark whether he wishes to file a report of missing property.”

Judging by the shocked expressions on Dr Banner, Miss Carter and Stark’s faces, they hadn’t expected that.  “I definitely don’t want to file any reports,” Stark declared a few beats later.  “Pepper, make a note.  No reports.”  Clint didn’t miss how Stark’s eyes slid to Phil as he spoke.

“Great,” Clint drawled.  “Now that we’ve established that, can we get with the rest of it?  It’s lunchtime and I’m getting hungry.”

Phil turned back to look at him and raised an eyebrow, but Clint merely smirked in reply.  “Of course,” Phil said dryly.  “We’d hate to impose on your lunch schedule, Mr Barton.”

“I find myself agreeing with Mr Barton,” Sir John Stern said, his tone as arrogant as ever, but it didn’t mask the tension he carried in his shoulders.  “Shall we get on with this?”

Phil’s expression lost all traces of humour and he nodded once in Stern’s direction.  He paused, his eyes drifting over Stark and Miss Potts, before his gaze flickered back to Stern.  He opened his mouth to begin, but Stark spoke first, cutting him off.  “Let me make it easy for you, Detective,” Stark said.  “You’re going to start with me.  Christine was a former lover of mine, after all, and everyone knows Hammer and I were rivals.”

“Those reasons do make you a suspect, yes,” Phil agreed.  “They don’t, however, make you guilty.”

Stark’s gaze met Phil’s for a long moment and Clint watched the two men come to some sort of unspoken understanding.  For a brief moment, the millionaire’s obnoxious facade softened and Clint caught the way Phil’s mouth quirked in reply.  “Even though I don’t have an alibi?” Stark asked, his tone back to faintly mocking.

“Tony was asleep when you say Christine... Miss Everhart was murdered,” Miss Potts broke in firmly.

Clint finally got to his feet, drawing attention to him.  He moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Phil and as he did, he couldn’t help but notice Natasha’s smirk.  He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Stern interrupted with a sneering expression.  “And we’re just taking the word of a lovesick secretary on that?” he said.  “Miss Potts could be lying.”

As Stern spoke, Miss Potts went ramrod stiff in her chair and her eyes sparked with anger.  “Contrary to popular opinion, I am not in love with my employer, Mr Stern,” she said.

“Yet you didn’t deny you’d lie for him,” Stern countered disdainfully.

Clint saw Miss Potts bite back what would have no doubt been a scathing reply as Stark narrowed his eyes beside her.  Even Phil tensed at Stern’s words.  However, it was Clint who broke the silence that followed.  “Everyone lies, Mr Stern,” he said.  “And usually their reasons are far more selfish than because they don’t want someone they care about to get hurt.”

For a moment, Stern looked angry enough to argue the point, before he pasted a false smile on his face and appeared to relax back into his chair as he gestured as if allowing Phil and Clint to continue.  Clint clenched his jaw and resisted saying something insulting in reply.  He took a deep breath, knowing Phil had orchestrated everything carefully and Clint didn’t want to disrupt his plans by just blurting out what he knew about Stern - no matter how much Clint wanted to remove the smug expression from the bastard’s face.

Lieutenant Rogers cleared his throat.  “What about the evidence?” he asked.

“According to the coroner, the nature and brutality of the murders tells us the crimes were committed by a man,” Phil said, his tone level even though Clint caught the fine tremor that went through the other man.  “Miss Everhart’s murder was one of both rage and opportunity, yet even so, the murderer was intelligent enough to leave very little of himself at the scene.  However, he made his first mistake when he left the remains of his French cigarettes - cigarettes a socialite like Miss Everhart would not smoke.”  Phil paused and Clint watched him carefully eye the others in the room - and their reactions.  “The murderer’s second mistake was leaving behind a cigarette case after killing Justin Hammer,” Phil said.  “A case inscribed with the initials J.B.B.”

Clint didn’t think he needed to voice who that was; no one else seemed to need it explained further as all eyes in the room moved towards Sergeant James Barnes.  To his credit, Barnes met the stares with a calm one of his own, his pale blue eyes and serious expression giving little away.  Stern, however, looked entirely too smug that everyone was looking at the Sergeant.

“Now wait a minute…” Lieutenant Rogers said angrily, interrupting in an attempt to defend his friend.  “You can’t think Bucky had anything to do with this!”

“The initials do fit James Buchanan Barnes,” Clint said dryly.

Phil shot him a slightly irritated look before he took over again.  Clint had to bite back an improper grin.  He was beginning to enjoy riling the detective.  “Sergeant Barnes also refuses to name anyone to support his alibi for the night of Miss Everhart’s murder,” Phil said mildly.  “And then there’s a certain matter that was brought to my attention.  Allegations of ‘unstable character’’, is that not correct Mr Stern?”

Clint wanted to remove Stern’s arrogant expression with his fist.  Instead, he clenched his jaw and remained silent, waiting for Phil to go in for the kill.  Somehow Phil seemed to know what he was feeling, because Phil’s hand carefully reached out to touch Clint’s, the movement hidden by the desk as Phil brushed his fingers soothingly against Clint’s skin.

“Yes, it is,” Stern said smugly.

“Those allegations are ridiculous!” Peggy protested.  “Bucky is not an ‘unstable character’!”

“They also aren’t official,” Lieutenant Rogers said, barely unclenching his jaw enough to speak.  “I’ve never heard anyone mention them before.”

Phil turned his unrelenting stare on Sir John Stern and Clint settled his hip against the desk to watch.  From the cold expression in Phil’s eyes, Stern was about to get a glimpse of how dangerous the detective could be.  “That’s because the allegations are lies and flimsy ones at that.  They were invented to cast suspicion on Sergeant Barnes simply because he had the misfortune to share the right initials.  The murderer hadn’t intended to leave behind such a crucial piece of evidence and when he found out the cigarette case was missing, he panicked.  Isn’t that right, Sir John?” Phil snapped, his voice hard and cold.

“I... just what...” Stern began, clearly not having expected Phil’s sudden and relentless words.

“Except Sir John Stern isn’t the name you were born with, is it?” Phil continued sharply.  “Nor were you born in England.  Your name is really Jean-Baptiste Beaumont and you were born just outside Paris, is that not also true?”

Around the room, people were staring at Stern with various degrees of surprise and shock.  Detective Inspector Sitwell was looking between Stern and Phil, his eyes wide in his face, while Stark, Miss Potts and Dr Banner were all staring at Stern with pale faces and expressions of anger with an edge of horror.  Peggy Carter, Lieutenant Rogers and Sergeant Barnes had similar expressions on their faces too, except both Miss Carter and Lieutenant Rogers looked as if they were seconds away from leaping up and starting to swing punches at the way Stern had tried to implicate James Barnes as the murderer.

“I resent what you are implying, Detective,” Stern growled, his face falling into an expression of dark anger.  “And I have little patience for your ridiculous fiction...”

“It’s _not_ an implication,” Phil said coldly.  “I have proof.”  He paused, turning back to the desk to pick up the pile of incriminating documents he, Clint and Natasha had gathered on Stern.  “I have a photograph of you with Charles and Amelia Everhart, Christine Everhart’s parents, in Paris.  I have a photograph that proves you had an affair with Amelia Everhart after the family allowed you to return to England with them.  Not only that, I have a note that proves Justin Hammer and Christine Everhart knew your secret and were blackmailing you about it - giving you plenty of motive to kill them.”

Stern jolted to his feet in anger.  “I have an alibi for Miss Everhart’s murder!  I was in my home halfway across London!” he snapped.  “Just ask my staff!”

“Oh, we did,” Sitwell broke in.  “None of your staff actually saw you between when you arrived home until breakfast that morning.  You had plenty of time to travel back to the Savoy Hotel and kill Miss Everhart.”

“A fact you took full advantage of,” Phil said.  “Because you were seen at the Savoy Hotel by Lieutenant Rogers just before the murder having an argument with Dr Banner.”

Dr Banner nodded, his face grave and his eyes pained.  “He did.  He was there,” he said softly.  “I had no idea... I didn’t realise what he was going to do, I swear.”

“No one did, Dr Banner,” Phil said softly.  “Stern is an accomplished liar and spy.  He passed secrets back to Germany sympathisers during the War.  It’s why he couldn’t let anyone find out he was really Jean-Baptiste Beaumont, because then they’d know of his crimes.”

“You can’t prove any of this!” Stern yelled.

“We can,” Sitwell said grimly.  “Sir John Stern, you are under arrest for the murders of Miss Christine Everhart and Justin Hammer.  Sergeant, take him away.”

Wordlessly, everyone watched a police sergeant slap the madly cursing Stern in handcuff and then lead him out of the room.  In the following silence, Detective Inspector Sitwell walked up to the desk and held out a hand for the documents.  Phil gave them to him without a word.  The rest of the room, aside from Natasha, seemed far too stunned by the revelation that Stern was both spy and a murderer to do more than sit for a moment.  “Right, well, I think we should take a vote and never do this again,” Stark said, rising to his feet and breaking the awkward and tense silence.

“Tony...” Miss Potts began.

“I hope you never do, Mr Stark,” Phil said mildly.

With a final nod, Stark led the way as he, Miss Potts and Dr Banner left the room, Stark complaining all the while about needing a drink.  Dr Banner paused in the doorway for a moment and glanced back at Phil and Clint.  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

A moment later, Miss Carter walked up and to Clint’s surprise, threw her arms around Phil in a somewhat teary hug.  “Thank you, Phil,” he heard her whisper.  “Thank you.”

Lieutenant Rogers nodded.  “Thank you indeed, Detective Coulson.  You helped Peggy and Bucky and...”

Phil smiled, the expression warm and fond yet somehow also distant.  “It’s quite all right, Lieutenant,” he said.  “I was just doing my job.” He hesitated for a moment and looked wryly at Sergeant Barnes.  “I was only after the truth, after all.”

After the three of them had left and Sitwell had added his own thanks for the help on the case, Clint found himself finally alone with Phil.  He wasn’t sure when or where Natasha had disappeared, but he had no doubts she would reappear if he needed her too.  This was probably her idea of giving him and Phil a moment to talk, even if it was not perhaps the best venue for it.  “Well,” Clint said finally, breathing out a sigh.  “That was something.  Are the ends of cases always that dramatic, Detective?”

Phil’s lip twitched as if he wanted to smile.  “No, not usually,” he replied, his eyes dancing with the laughter he wasn’t allowing himself to voice.

“Hmm, that’s a pity,” Clint said, “because I like a bit of danger.  It’s one of the things that makes me such a good scoundrel.” He paused and watched Phil turn towards him with a questioning eyebrow and a faint, confused frown on his face.  “I was thinking,” Clint told him.  “Natasha says you could use a hand around the office.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Phil’s mouth.  Clint wanted to kiss it.  “I’m not sure you’re what I’m looking for in a secretary, Mr Barton,” Phil said dryly, but his eyes were laughing.

“Good, because I can’t file worth a damn,” Clint grinned.  “I am, however, very good at sneaking and I always carry a knife.  I even helped a famous detective catch a murderer once.  What do you say, Phil?  Haven’t you ever wanted a side-kick?”

“A side-kick?  No,” Phil said and Clint refused to acknowledge the way his heart sank to his stomach.  “I could, however, use a partner,” Phil added.

Clint blinked up at him.  “A partner?”

Phil nodded, his eyes warm and his expression as unguarded as Clint had ever seen it.  “Yes,” Phil said.  “Particularly if that partner is good at sneaking and always carries a knife and goes by the name of Clint Barton.”

For a moment, Clint tried to stop the grin sliding across his face, before he gave up.  “I accept,” he said, holding out his hand for Phil to shake.  “Partner.”

With an answering smile, Clint was distracted by the callouses on Phil’s fingers as they curled around his.  “Well, as an official detective, it’s time for your first lesson, Clint,” he said.  “Paperwork.”

Clint actually groaned aloud.  “Paperwork?” he said.

“Every case needs to be written up,” Phil replied, his eyes teasing even though Clint knew he was completely serious.  “You never know when the information might be useful.”

“Okay,” Clint agreed.  “There’s just one more thing...”

“Oh?” Phil asked, his eyes narrowing as Clint winked at him, as if trying to figure out what Clint was up to.

Clint stepped up close enough to Phil that they were almost touching and resisted the urge to slide his hands under the detective’s jacket.  “I _will_ be kissing you again.”

Phil smiled, his expression unlike any Clint was used to seeing on the other man.  It was downright _wicked_.  “I can work with that,” Phil said.  “But first: paperwork.”

Shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh, Clint nevertheless followed Phil as he headed for the door.  “You know, I have a thought,” Clint started.

“No,” Phil said, grabbing his hat and coat.

“You haven’t even heard my idea yet!” Clint protested as Phil gave him a _look_.  “I’m officially your partner now.  Should we think about changing the name of your offices?”

Phil sighed.

“The Barton and Coulson Detective Agency has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Clint continued, undaunted.

“Clint...” Phil began, before he gave up.  “If you do your paperwork, I’ll let you introduce yourself to the clients as Detective Barton,” he said flatly.

Clint grinned.

This was going to be fun.

 

Fin.


End file.
